


the weight of a beating heart

by Lilian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Is Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Severus Snape Lives, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-06 09:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/pseuds/Lilian
Summary: Harry gets captured by Death Eaters while "camping" with Ron and Hermione (book 7). They throw him into a cell to wait until Voldemort gets to him. However, Snape is also there as a prisoner, and he tells him about the prophecy.A story of love, friendship, and Severus Snape's heartbeats.





	1. part one. utensils in the storm

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wasn't planned, at all. It just came out of me, like this, more feelings than prose, really.

**part one. utensils in the storm.**

 

 

He needs to be Hermione now. He needs to have her quick wit, her analytical skills, and her fierce temper.

He needs to be Ron as well. He needs to have his strategic mind, his steady strength, his loyalty.

But he needs to be Harry, himself, all the same. He needs to have his dumb luck and that special something that always gets him out of shitty situations.

 

Alone in the cell, he needs to be HermioneRonHarry, the sum of them, all the best parts, because otherwise, he won’t survive.

 

*

The thing is though, he realizes after his breathing settled back to something approaching normal: he  _isn’t_ alone.

 

There is someone else lying in the dirt, just a few feet away from him.

The light isn’t the best even though it’s an early summer afternoon, the cell is still dingy.

He has to move closer to see whom the raggedly breathing form belongs to.

 

It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds to recognize the man, and Harry recoils in a surprised rage.

 

It’s Severus Snape.

 

*

Snape is alive, and after Harry shakes him awake, he recognizes him, and he  _tells him things_ .

 

Harry wants to throttle him, just, full on put his fingers around his neck and suffocate him (they took his wand), but even against all his screaming hate, he cannot help but  _hear_ what Snape says.

 

And not much later, some Death Eaters do the work instead of him. Which is fine with Harry, really. If someone deserves to be tortured, it’s Snape.

 

*

They take Snape away, again and again, but his words stay with Harry.

 

The words don’t leave Harry’s mind, even as the screaming starts.

 

_It’s not true. Cannot be._

 

*

’It’s bullshit.’ The Ron in his head insists long after Snape was tossed back into the cell, although his voice loses some of its certainty as the man gives a weak, broken moan.

’Think it through, Harry, could he sham these injuries?’ Hermione adds, concerned. ’I know he’s a good actor, but… That smells like real blood. Would they really go this far just to mess with your mind?’

’But if I believe _this,’_ Harry tells them quietly, indicating the rag doll of a man lying there, bleeding onto the hard floor, ’Then I have to believe what he says as well. That I… That I have to die to defeat him. Because I am his Horcrux.’

 

He can imagine their faces in response to that. He prays that he’ll see them again.

 

*

 

As they torture him, Harry prays. He prays that Hermione and Ron are safe and unharmed.

 

*

This time, after they toss him back to their cell, Snape doesn’t move. Harry can see the movement of his chest, but it’s slow and horrible-sounding.

 

He tries speaking to him, but Snape doesn’t move.

He pokes a cautious finger into his side, and Snape doesn’t even twitch.

 

Hours must pass as Snape struggles on, only barely breathing, and Harry stares at him, panic steadily mounting inside of him.

 

’He’s dying.’ He finally whispers in his mind, shocked by the realization. Hermione and Ron don’t disagree.

 

*

’He’s dying.’ Harry thinks frantically.

This is not a trick. It cannot be. Snape told him the truth, the whole unbelievable mess about Dumbledore, his mother, and him being the last Sacrifice, it’s all true. Snape was always on his side. He  _is_ on his side, and he’s dying. And in his last days (hours?), Harry was horrible to him. Wished him dead. Called him a liar, a coward, and worse.

 

And now Snape will truly die, alone, in pain, in a cold, dark cell, broken to pieces.

 

Harry cannot let that happen, and neither will HermioneRonHarry. Because this is only basic decency.

 

*

Harry wants to cry as he moves closer.

Snape smells of excrement, vomit, piss, blood, and sweat.

Harry wants to cry as he sees the full extent of his hurt.

Snape has cuts, burns, bruises all over him, blood covering more of his body than what used-to-be clothes.

 

He cannot face him.

Harry wants to cry as he settles along the man’s cold back, and brushes against his form from neck to toe. Because even though he’s pressing against so much of his abused skin…

Snape doesn’t move.

Harry wants to cry as he cradles his arms around the bat who made his school-years horrible.

Snape’s heartbeat is flickery under his right palm.

 

(There are moments, moments like facing a mountain troll with someone else at your side at age eleven, that change how you relate to people. This feels like those sort of moments.)

 

Harry doesn’t cry. He starts to speak.

 

*

The first half hour is as cathartic as it’s heartbreaking. Rage, hurt and forgiveness hurdle out of him, and the confusing enormity of it leaves him feeling empty.

But in the end, after everything that was said, Snape is just a man who lived and now prepares to leave.

And Harry is just a person who says his goodbyes and lets him go. 

 

*

Hours later, he’s still in the same position. He suspects that he must have fallen asleep. Snape’s heartbeat is still present under his hand, but he’s got used to the smell, and he must have been awakened by the tiny spasms that run over Snape’s body.

 

”You can go now.” He whispers to the back of his neck softly. He’s afraid, but he tries to sound calm.”We’re fine. I forgave you and I like to think you granted me the same because I was honest in my apologies.”

 

It hurts to talk, the water they got for the day so desperately far away. He needs to do this first.

 

”Be brave. I’ll stay with you the entire time if those bastards don’t force me away.” He means it. It will probably the hardest thing he'll ever do, hugging a person as life bleeds out of them, but… he’ll do it. He won’t leave Snape alone.

 

”Thank you for everything…” He swallows. Well, he wouldn’t like to be called ’Potter’ on his deathbed. ”S—Severus. Thank you, Severus.”

 

The heartbeat flicks under his palm, but it doesn’t give out.

 

*

The next time he wakes, it’s because of the approaching footsteps outside.

Snape is still alive, trembling in his horribly stiffened arms, and Harry feels his heartbeat for a second before he crawls closer to the door, to shield the unconscious man with his body.

 

”Back again, fuckface?” He calls out as the door opens.

 

They are rougher with him for that comment, but they don’t pay attention to Snape, and Harry feels soaring relief.

 

As they torture him, Harry prays. He prays Snape stays alive until he gets back to guard his passing.

 

*

The best he can think of is keeping a small amount of healing potion in his mouth (and isn’t it just  _delightful_ how healthy they want him until Voldemort gets here?), and plead they won’t hit him again until he’s alone with Snape once more.

 

He almost cannot believe his luck when the Death Eater only shoves him in with moderate roughness, and  _Snape is still breathing._

 

Harry turns him on his back and lifts his head gently, prying his mouth open to spit the desperately saved potion into it. Afterwards, he gives Snape some water as well, making sure to help him swallow it properly.

 

He turns Snape to his other side then and gathers him close as the older man shivers. One hand on his heart, always monitoring – they share Harry’s body heat.

 

*

Hours pass, as Harry murmurs nonsense things and Snape breathes steadily.

The hope – Harry discovers much later – had woken up in him without his consent, approval or knowledge. But once it’s there, he can’t get rid of it.

 

Maybe. Maybe there is a chance Snape could survive.

 

*

He feels feverish himself, even though it’s just the body in his hold.

 

”And I’ll get you ice cream! All the flavors you’d like, as many as they can fit in a cone. You can have vanilla and blueberry and hazelnut and bubblegum, and… have you ever seen the ’Smurf’ one? It’s blue, and it’s for children originally, but I’ll buy you some if you want to try it. I promise. If you just stay alive for me, I’ll get you blue ice cream, every day if you want. Just stay with me, okay? Don’t leave me alone here.”

 

*

Snape’s fever breaks around the time when Harry’s voice gives out. As the dawn brings a tiny light into the dirty cell, Snape’s heartbeat echoes in Harry’s palm.

 

*

Then there is the desperation.

”Where the fuck is he? You’d think he has his priorities sorted, just neat little lists, kill your arch-enemy first, do everything else afterward, for example, like, should I be worried? Did he change his tactic so drastically he doesn’t even come and gloat in person? That’s so out of character. No, really, ’coz you know what he does, right? Every. Fucking. Time we meet, he just gives me these sodding speeches. Blood purity, how much of a coward I am, how I’m sooo gonna die _this time for sure_ , that sort of crap. And now what? It has been like… four, five, six days? WHERE IS YOUR NOSELESS MASTER, YOU STUPID PRICKS?!”

 

’Mate, stop it, you’re seriously going bonkers.’ Ron warns him, and Harry snorts at him.

’Wow, that’s rich, coming from you, who’s inside my own head.’

Hermione shushes them both with tenderness.

’Harry, I know you’re worried. But you have to keep it together, okay? For all of our sakes.’

 

So Harry clings to his sanity like he clings to Snape’s heartbeat. The best he can.

 

*

He washes Snape’s face and hands, and tries to clean out his cuts, and wipes down his bottom and his genitals.

 

It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done to anyone, and he’s horribly embarrassed by it.

The visceral humanity of naked bodies.

And to think that after all this, Snape might still not survive… that’s such a horrible, terrible possibility that he wants to die with the misery of it.

 

*

Harry hasn’t got any medical knowledge, but he figures that it can’t hurt to keep Snape hydrated. They’ve got a system now. It goes like this: Harry convinces himself to let go of Snape’s chest, turns him slowly onto his back, kneels down by his head, and grabs under his arms to pull him up to his lap, just enough that he doesn’t suffocate him with the water he pours into his mouth. It’s an awkward process, as he needs to make sure that Snape’s head and neck are protected during this entire ordeal. More often then not, some of Snape’s cuts reopen and start bleeding because of the movements. Harry can’t help but cry at those times.

 

Harry cries at a lot of things now. It just started when one time he jerked awake by a nightmare about Snape’s heartbeat stopping. It was still there, under his fingers, of course, but for a minute, the panic was overwhelming. He didn’t even notice he was sobbing until he couldn't breathe anymore.

The tears made him feel better, that first time. And since then, it’s as if like a tap opens at all the hurtful things or thoughts that happen to them, a tap that he is unable to close.

 

*

When Snape blinks his eyes open as he touches the wet rag to his face, Harry almost suffers a heart attack.

A second later, he’s hurrying to check Snape’s pulse. But he’s fine. Well. He’s conscious.

 

Harry forgot how black his eyes were. He can’t help but grin at the man.

”Hey!” He whispers. ”You’re awake.”

Snape blinks again. He seems weak and dreadfully tired, pale as hell, but his eyes shine with the same sharp intelligence Harry remembers.

”Can you speak?”

Snape opens his mouth slowly, and visibly tries, but other than a horrible croaking sound, nothing happens.

”Okay, okay.” Harry soothes kindly. ”It’s fine. This is good. I can ask you yes or no questions, and you can-” Snape understands and does it already, signals with his eyes up and down as if nodding.

 

”Do you want water?” Nodding: yes.

”Can you sit up?” Side to side: no.

”Do you feel all right?” This earns him an eyeroll. Harry can’t help but chuckle. God, he used to hate this man and with good reason. Now, after the last long days, he feels like he’s losing his mind.

 

”Do you recognise me?”

 

Snape stares at him for a second, and Harry’s can’t quite decipher his gaze. Then it’s up and down (’yes’), immediately followed by an eye roll (’for god’s sakes’).

 

*

Snape slips back into unconsciousness as fast (and as unexpectedly) as he came out of it, and Harry’s eyes well up with desperate tears as he goes back to the start: mainly, laying his hand on Snape’s chest, feeling his heartbeat and cursing everything that he can’t do anything else.

 

The waiting is bad, the beatings not pleasant, but the most horrible things is how much he isn’t in control: he can only decide when to scream and when to cry and when to take his palm off Snape’s heart to shake the stiffness out of his fingers.

 

’This is not very healthy.’ Hermione reminds him, while Ron says: ’And frankly, bloody disgusting, you, needing to constantly touch _Snape_ of all people.’

 

Harry replies to them the same way he hushes Snape when he starts whimpering in his sleep. Shhh. It’s all right. It’s all right.

 

*

”Need to… break you out.” Snape rasps and Harry stirs at the sound. He leans over to the man’s other side to see his face, and doesn’t pay attention to his own protesting injuries.

”You’re awake?” He asks again and indeed it seems like it: Snape’s eyes are alive, while his face is contorted with the pain and effort it must take him to utter the words. ”Must… plan… diversion.”

 

Harry can just imagine how that would go down. They are a mess, and the only reason he still forces himself to crawl a few meters when needed is because he has to take care of Snape. They are in no shape to run.

 

”I won’t let you kill yourself for me.” He disagrees in his most convincing tone (or so he hopes).”I’m also not leaving without you, not like I’d be even capable, so…” He shrugs, hopelessly. It’s a moot point anyway: he doesn’t even have a wand, and there are at least five Death Eaters outside.

 

Snape rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt, but Harry can’t help but feel that he’s surprised the man. There are questions in his eyes and he keeps staring at him until it becomes uncomfortable. Harry quietly asks if he needs to drink, but it gets a ’no’ this time, so not knowing what else to do, he lies back to the position he laid in for the last few days: spooning Severus Snape, with his front to the man’s back, one hand on his heart.

 

It’s so automatic he doesn’t even realise it first that there is a big difference now; Snape is awake and aware of his movements, as the quick inhale informs him.

 

Harry’s face feels so hot he thinks he’d be able to start fires with it, but his hands refuse to part with the reassuring rhythm of Snape’s heart.

 

_Snape would move, or hiss, or would give some sort of signal if he felt uncomfortable with Harry draped over him, right?_

 

But Snape is only stiff, for the first few panicky minutes that Harry spends trying not to ignite what’s left of their clothes with his burning cheeks, and after that he relaxes in Harry’s hold. He doesn’t dare to check if it’s because Snape doesn’t mind or because he passed out in rage or disgust at his touch.

 

He just stays, and for the first time in days, he has to struggle to concentrate on feeling Snape’s heart over the deafening sound of his own in his ears.

 

*

The next day, Voldemort comes.

 

Harry bleeds and curses and mocks and cries (they are angry tears now, but tears all the same)-

 

and finally, he prays before he dies. He prays that everyone he loves is unharmed and safe.

 

Then he comes back and kills the pathetic son of a bitch. And his snake, for good measure.

 

*

 

The next time he wakes up, he doesn’t have to be HermioneRonHarry anymore. Because Hermione and Ron are sitting next to his bed in Hogwarts’s infirmary.

 


	2. part two. nothing: stolen, hidden, wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry clings to Snape, even when it’s not needed anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder 1: it's not okay to hit your friends, even if they're really acting out.  
> Reminder 2: the adults are right; don't snuggle your snarky potions masters without asking for permission first.

**part two. nothing: stolen, hidden, wonderful**

 

 

They treat Snape in his bedroom.

 

Harry is two months short of eighteen years old and he’s already died once. His bones are mostly intact and his skin is healed, he’d defeated the Dark Wizard of the Century, and he’s not allowed to leave his bed in the Infirmary.

 

Snape lies alone in his bedroom and his status was stable an hour ago, but Harry cannot know if he’s stable _now,_ because Hermione and Ron refuse to break into his quarters to find out and Madam Pomfrey stopped answering his questions with anything else that isn’t along the lines of:”Mr. Potter, you need to calm down.”

 

He doesn’t say to anyone:

 

’I need to feel his heartbeat, please.’ Because that’s ridiculous.

 

He also can’t say:

 

’Let me stay with him, I need to protect him.’ Because that’s also absurd, Voldemort’s gone, his supporters in chains, the most danger Snape is in now is stupid Wizengamot people deciding to throw him into Azkaban, and that won’t happen, because they’d have to go over Harry’s and McGonagall’s and Harry’s and Bimba’s and Madam Pomfrey’s dead bodies first, not to mention Dumbledore’s portrait picture, and Harry, and BEST FUCKING LUCK with that, he’s already died once and came back, he can probably do it over again for as long as it takes to get Snape pardoned.

 

_But what if his heart stops._

 

Hermione and Ron don’t talk in his head anymore because they sit by his side and hold his hands. They are different than Harry remembered them, but no less loving.

 

He’s so _thankful_ they’re safe and unharmed.

 

*

It’s the second night he wakes up gasping because of the nightmares, the heartbeat missing from under his hands. It’s not fucking right and he needs to feel it if he doesn’t want to go crazy with worry in the next few minutes.

 

It’s a long walk to the dungeons and he only remembers to cast a warming spell on his bare feet after the first set of freezing stairs, but nobody runs after him to order him back to bed. It’s the middle of the night, and there isn’t anyone around but Mrs. Norris who treads along him for a while, but eventually wanders off.

 

Snape’s quarters are password and spell-protected, but Harry begs the castle until it lets him in. He doesn’t know if that’s magic or simple kindness.

 

It isn’t hard to find the bedroom and Harry doesn’t hesitate to step inside. Severus is sleeping on his side, curled up like a kitten, and he only gives a tiny grunt as Harry slips under the covers and assumes their usual position.

 

He counts his heartbeats up to six hundred and twenty-nine before he falls asleep.

 

*

He wakes up to:

 

”Mr. Potter, get out of that bed _this instant_.”

 

Harry can’t. Not when the heartbeat under his hand gallops at a quicker pace. Thumpthumthump. Thumpthumthump. It’s mesmerizingly strong. He’s alive. He’s alive.

 

”Harry Potter, if you don’t get up at this very moment, I’m going to levitate you out of that bed.”

 

Madam Pomfrey uses the same tone Aunt Petunia had done, back when Harry still slept in a cupboard. It’s funny in the same way that Snape is pretending to be asleep now. Harry giggles, but taps at Snape’s chest with two fingers ( _I’ll be back_ , it promises) and reluctantly climbs out of the warm cocoon of comfort they created.

 

”Severus, did _you_ invite this _student_ to share your bed?” Pomfrey asks coldly, apparently not fooled by Snape either. The black-haired man with the prominent nose shakes his head, once, eyes squeezed together in discomfort.

 

Harry frowns. What’s wrong with him? Is he in pain?

 

”Right,” Poppy Pomfrey says in a clipped tone. ”Severus, take your potions in ten minutes, please, and inform me if there is any change.” She turns her hard gaze on him. ”Mr. Potter, come along: you and I are going to have a lengthy conversation about consent.”

 

She walks to the door with the confidence her orders will be obeyed, but she has her back turned and misses how the black eyes snap open and lock onto the green ones. They hold each other’s gazes for a precious three seconds before Harry hurries to catch up to the mediwizard.

 

*

Harry is so confused it almost literally hurts his brain.

 

”But I haven’t done anything inappropriate! I’m just hugging him!”

 

”Mr. Potter, do I have to repeat myself about personal space and bodily integrity?”

 

”But he never said no!”

 

”Then he was wrong to do so. As your teacher, he was and _is_ in a position of power over you, Mr. Potter, so he had the responsibility of refusing your advances,” Madam Pomfrey sucks in a breath.”… however, it is somewhat understandable that he didn’t explain this to you at the time when he was so greatly injured. It’s a minor medical miracle he survived. I can imagine that in the situation you were in it was difficult to act rationally; but that doesn’t change the fact that Hogwarts has strict policies about student-teacher relationships, which are placed there to provide protection to all parties.”

 

There is some sort of water rushing about in his head. He can see Snape lying there, dirty and bruised, and imagines himself _not touching him,_ not even attempting to provide some comfort. It’s something unthinkable, something vile and villainy, something only monsters, Death Eaters can do, to, to…

 

This doesn’t make sense, Harry muses, _I just didn’t want him to die unloved._

 

’Of course, I’ll have to inform the Headmistress of this incident.’

 

_And I don’t want anything from him except for the continuous evidence of his existence._

 

He’s barely aware when the mediwizard starts to talk to him in a softer tone:

 

”Harry, I know you’ve been through a big trauma, one that Professor Snape somehow shared with you: but the proper way to _get_ _support_ moving past it needs to come from your family and friends, not from one of your teachers.”

 

The same scene replaying in his head. Severus dying, because he doesn’t feel the need to stay, not without the warmth of another body, not without the promise of love and companionship.

 

She is still talking. The images get grimmer. Harry shudders.

 

”Please, leave Severus to heal on his own as well: I can assure you, I’ll give him all the necessary medical attention and resources he needs to make a full recovery. Headmistress McGonagall will be more than happy to talk to you about this as well if you wish to do so.”

 

_Yeah, right._

 

 

 

*

McGonagall stiffly tells him that he’s not allowed to see nor speak to Professor Snape until his graduation next summer, which really shouldn’t be a hardship since he opted out of taking Potion’s two years ago.

 

She tells him that going against this rule will inevitably lead to his expulsion, and adds that the same goes for the Professor and that Harry should be considerate of him because he’d not find a new workplace as quickly as Harry a school willing to take him.

 

She tells him to have a biscuit and apologizes for the way the Order wasn’t able to locate them before Voldemort got there. She thanks him for getting rid of the bastard and for keeping Snape alive. She looks tired, but Harry finds it really hard to empathize with her: he bites his cheek from the inside until it bleeds and crushes the biscuit into edible sand in his fist.

 

He doesn’t give a single flying fuck about what she said.

 

*

 

Hermione and Ron decide to retake the year with him, although, they confide, they’ve asked McGonagall for a separate room away from the Gryffindor Tower.

 

”Ah, beautiful, so you two can live together AND HAVE SEX every night and it’s legally supported, while I can’t even touch his chest throughout clothes. Wait, I’m not even allowed to talk to him now, for fuck’s sakes.”

 

Ron is red with anger, Hermione is flushed with embarrassment. They avoid looking at each other because then they’d see how much they are pining for each other, and Harry obviously needs to suffer through _four more months_ of spending time with sexually frustrated best friends.

 

”We asked it for the three of us, and that’s not the bloody same thing now, is it!” Ron protests.

 

_Yeah, it really isn’t, because the whole world seems to think Snape and I want to bone, and you two don’t, when it’s, in fact, the other way around._

 

’Harry, this is not okay. I know you think it is, but it’s not. You should really consider seeing a professional therapist.’

 

Harry is mad at both of them, and so fucking _lost_ without that heartbeat; and with them, he can let it out.

He shouts the worst abuse at them. It makes Hermione cry and causes Ron to hit him: but they stay with him.

Harry sends them to hell and back and he doesn’t mean one word; he curses their firstborn child and lies that he never loved them. It makes Ron cry and causes Hermione to hit him: but they stay with him.

 

At the end of the day, Harry feels slightly better, but worn out and guilty; and they forgive him, and sit with him and hold his hands.

 

*

They’re packed up and ready to go to the Burrow as soon as Madame Pomfrey clears him fit to travel. The three of them already decided to rent an apartment in muggle London for the rest of the summer. They’d stay with the Weasleys for a short while, but Hermione’s eager to find her parents and Ron can’t wait to get his own space where he’s the only redhead.

 

It won’t be a problem: Molly and Arthur are busy with their grandchild and involving Percy into the family again and trying to not freak out about the fact that their only daughter plans to marry Luna Lovegood only a month into the summer.

 

”As long as we promise to help with the wedding preparations, they won’t be too concerned about not having us underfoot.” Ron strategizes. ”One of us floos in every few days and shows them how _not underfed_ we are, makes some small talk, and it’s completely fine. Charlie did the same thing and they only complained about his hair. And his piercings. And tattoos.’

 

He pauses, thinks about it, then shoots them a dark look.

 

”Not planning to get tattoos soon, are you?”

 

Hermione giggles and elbows Harry in the ribs.

 

”We totally are. I’ll have ’Ronald’ on my bicep with a big red heart, and Harry’ll get a print of Snape’s face. On his butt.’

 

Both boys gape at her indignantly, but her mirth is contagious and soon they’re laughing until his bellies start to ache.

 

*

The night before they leave, Harry stares at Severus Snape’s dot on the Marauders Map for three hours. It’s a habit he picked up after the fourth time he woke up in one night, completely drenched in sweat, terrified without the heartbeat under his fingers.

 

The thing is, he tries to remember how it was before, sleeping without spooning Snape’s wry, skinny body, shielding his heart with his own flesh. It shouldn’t be this hard of a mental exercise, he spent 17 years being alone in bed, and only approximately 9 days glued to Snape’s back, and still. Still.

So, not knowing what else to do, he gets the map out and stares at his name.

 

Snape moves around in his rooms, more and more each night: Harry had no idea the man would be this nocturnal, but Snape hardly ever seems to be in bed, always pacing around. His health seems greatly improved; one must be ’almost fine’ to spend so much time of the night walking in circles.

 

And this night, the night before Harry’s train departs, Snape finally leaves the dungeons.

 

Harry catches up to him on the fifth floor and opens up the secret passage behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

 

”Psst!” He hisses at Snape to get his attention. Snape swirls around but doesn’t seem surprised to find him there.

Harry leads them to the small space the secret passage starts out with. It’s completely dark in there, but Snape makes his wand light up at the very tip. For Harry, it’s an uncomfortable reminder of Dumbledore’s death, so instead, he summons a cold blue light and puts it in a jar.

 

The light makes the bolthole bathe in an intimate glow, and Snape with his half-healed scars and protruding bones looks both younger and more vulnerable as usual. He’s in worse shape than Harry imagined.

 

”Hey.” He greets him softly.

 

He gets a raised eyebrow and a nod in response.

 

”They’ve forbidden me to see you.” He complains, and he knows that he sounds like a petulant child.”They act like… Like we’re some sort of _lovers_ when I only wanna know you’re alive.”

 

He doesn’t expect to see red spots appearing on Snape’s cheeks. The other man seems angry about his own reaction, compressing his lips into a thin line.

Despite everyone insinuating it, Harry didn’t give the idea anything but a simple dismissal before. But it makes him pause now.

It’s hard to imagine, being intimate with Snape when he thinks about it in terms of kissing and doing sexual things together.

It comes naturally when it’s about the pads of his fingers against his beating heart. Or how their bodies fit together, lying down in a half-embrace.

Except, Severus might hate all that.

 

”Pomfrey said… well, most of it was bollocks, but… do you not… ummm, are you uncomfortable with…?”

 

Snape stares at him for a long moment.

 

”Potter.” He starts, but Harry interrupts him right away.

 

”Let’s not do that anymore, please. It’s Harry.”

 

Snape rolls his eyes at him, but there isn’t much feeling behind it.

 

” _Harry,”_ Severus spits the word out like an insult, and Harry can’t help but grin: “Despite what my colleges seem to think, I’m aware how extremely unlikely it is you’ve _developed a crush_.”

 

Something in Harry wants to immediately argue that, but he finds he doesn’t know why: it must be only a long-practiced reaction, to automatically disagree with anything Snape says.

 

”And Merlin knows my _innocence_ is in no need of protection.”

 

Harry smiles at him.

 

”So you don’t mind…?”

 

Snape glares back as if he’s more offended that Harry dares to look happy in his presence.

 

”No, you idiotic child, of course I don’t mind.”

 

In spite of the consent explicitly given, they both grow nervous. Harry desperately searches for topics and finds that they never had a civil discussion _this long_ before.

 

”So… how do you feel?” He risks, and Severus quickly snaps back:

 

”I feel like this is a waste of my time.” He makes a move to change their position and barrel out of their hiding place.

 

”It’s not,” Harry says gently, planting his feet firmly. ”I need to know you’re okay.”

 

He holds his hand out carefully, like one wanting to pet a frightened animal, being extra cautious of the movements. ”May I?”

 

Snape stares at his hand like it holds a dagger – he stares at it like it holds the universe’s secrets he can’t quite decipher. He freezes it in place with his gaze, the intensity of it not breaking as he blinks. Harry almost doesn’t dare to breathe. His fingers are slightly shaking with anticipation.

 

He would actually die – he thinks – if he’d be denied right now.

 

Severus, having come to the decision, squeezes his eyes tightly shut, and even moves his head to the side. It’s ludicrous like he’s expecting to be hurt from the touch. He makes a noise, a rough ’hrummh’, and it’s not a no.

Harry, like an addict in need of a fix, moves a step closer.

 

Regardless of his craving, it’s still weird to place his palm on Snape’s heart. They never did this face to face before. But the steady thumpthumpthump is like music injected directly into his veins.

 

_No one else has such a beautiful heartbeat as you do._

 

Snape’s whole body is rigid, his eyes still closed. Harry hopes he doesn’t hate it completely. He longs for more, himself: so after a few minutes of self-guessing debate, he curls his left hand’s fingers around Snape’s right wrist.

 

Severus’s heart gives a slightly out of rhythm beat to the unexpected touch, but he doesn’t give any other indication of noticing the movement.

Harry, however, feels like he’s in heaven.

They form a complete circuit now – Severus, the life coursing through him, and Harry, appreciating every second of it.

It (the beating, the blessed monotony of it) lulls him to such a relaxed state that he thinks he could fall asleep. (It’s no wonder, he’d slept rubbish without it.) His eyelids are heavy, and his knees wobbly: so he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Severus’s collarbone.

 

It’s one more line they haven’t crossed before, but Harry feels safe and almost drunkenly good: besides, Severus would push him away if it became too much for him. There was no way the man wouldn’t have left him alone already if he’s had enough.

 

”I haven’t even thanked you for not dying on me yet,” Harry whispers into his robes, pleased beyond words when he feels-hears Severus snort-chuckle in response.

 

”I assure you, it was entirely selfish,” Severus replies in a similarly low tone.

 

”I’d say.” Harry jokes and they both snicker quietly.

 

*

Harry misses it the moment they part.

 

This is one half of the reason he sneaks into Snape’s study the next morning, a few hours before they need to board the train to London.

 

Severus is sitting behind his desk writing something: this time, he looks truly annoyed.

 

”You should be packing, I believe?”

 

He had done that, in fact. He has five socks and a tent. It didn’t take long.

 

”I know, I know.” He placates, smiling, then frowning, because that seems to be working better with Snape. ”I just came to say goodbye.”

 

He stares at Severus’s chest without even meaning to: he only catches himself doing it when Snape gives a putout sigh and holds his wrist out to him.

 

”You have two minutes, and I’ll time you.” He rumbles. ”Consider going to a real therapist? They’ll introduce you to better coping mechanisms.”

 

Harry breathes deeply through his nose. His eyes close on their own account but blink back open when Severus curls his own hand around in his grasp and gives his hand a warning tap.

 

He finds himself looking into Snape’s seemingly bottomless, serious eyes.

 

”I mean it, Potter. You have PTSD, and you need professional help. This time around.” The last sentence he murmurs under his nose.

 

Harry’s heart flutters. It’s not something he wants to hear.

 

”I’ll think about it.” He allows, not completely meaning it, then swallows. Right. Why he really came. ”If you write to me. And meet me sometime, in the summer?”

 

Severus’s face grows dark.

 

”Are you giving me ultimatums, Potter?” He snarls so passionately Harry takes a step backward. Their hands disconnect.

 

”No, of course not. I’m… asking. Like I’ve asked you to call me Harry, please.”

 

Snape grimaces. He grabs a book from the desk and moves it into another spot, but the movement doesn’t seem to be doing anything else besides occupying his hands.

 

”The faculty usually stays one additional month after the students start their summer holiday. I’ll be busy with meetings and the curricula and such until early July. I’ll not have time to cater to your ridiculous-”

 

”Just letters then, until July.” Harry negotiates.

 

Severus looks up at him, sharply.

 

”I’m not-”

 

”Please. Please.” Harry begs. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed about it. Severus understands, deep down, under the playing hard to get, so busy, yadda-yadda. He’s sure of it. ”Just a few words per day. Just to let me know you’re fine.”

 

Severus surveys him like he’s a puzzle: a very simple one that’s made to seem difficult only by its missing pieces.

 

Harry puts on his best puppy-eyed expression.

 

For a second, Snape looks as taken aback as if he’s just said _he_ was an alien all along, then as if he’s suddenly swallowed a lemon, and finally vaguely disgusted, like he stepped into horse-shit, but like it was such a frequent occurrence that it hadn’t prompted more than mild irritation.

 

Harry doesn’t know how Severus can have such engaging facial expression that he makes him imagine whole scenes with it: like now, Severus Snape, the cowboy standing on his farm in America, stepping close to one of his horses just to realize with gloomy resignation that it _happened again_. Now the second time this week.

 

”Bugger,” Snape mutters with feeling, then waves a hand in the door’s general direction. Harry blinks, and the hat and the horse disappears. ”I’ll _think about it_ , if you make yourself scarce right this second and you never attempt to use that face on me _ever again._ ”

 

Harry laughs, relieved. He turns back before he crosses the threshold to call back:

 

”Have a good month! Meetings and curricula and such.” He sends a blindingly warm smile in Snape’s way, which, curiously, makes the professor react like a deer-in-headlights.

 

”I’ll write.” He adds sultry.

When he closes the door, he sees Snape gaping at his desk with indignation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts???


	3. part three. crazy, crazy, your name is Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on, with hiccups and hookups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for panic attacks. Also, a tiny bit of looking outside of gender roles, because I can't really contain myself.

**part three. crazy, crazy, your name is Harry**

 

The Burrow is loud and busy with people and it makes Harry jumpy. People seem to appear out of nowhere by his elbow (which can be entirely possible; they are wizards after all) and Molly keeps shouting at one of his children or their extended family-members.

 

Harry hides in Ron’s room and pretends he’s engrossed in a book: in reality, he can’t see the pages before him. He keeps seeing the steel door the Death Eaters came through to take one of them away.

 

It’s worse than that, now. Because now, Snape is not with him. But not only is his lifesign simply missing, Harry gets snapped back to reality by the mundanest of things. Mrs. Weasley yelling something to Luna about fresh flowers. Fred complaining about nobody helping to conjure chairs for the guests.

 

Harry thinks about writing to Severus. He drums his fingers against Ron’s desk. It’s only nine am. _Just to_ _ask if he’s all right._

It’s stupid, Harry knows. How could anything happen to you in a school where there are no trolls, alive basilisks or Death Eaters in the faculty anymore? Nobody would dare to hurt Severus, not his colleges, surely?

Anything could happen. He has to **make sure**.  

 

But maybe it would be better to hear it later? Snape could get injured or kidnapped or tortured _after_ he sent him his answer letter, and what then? How would Harry find out about it?

 

In the end, he just can’t take it anymore.

 

He scribbles words on an old parchment in frantic haste. It’s nine twenty. He has to take the letter to the nearest Owlery. It will take two minutes to Apparate there, another few to convince Ron to go with him and explain how to „rent” an owl for personal use.

 

Ron looks at him searchingly, as if he’s wondering where Harry’s sanity went. He doesn’t ask, and perhaps it’s better: he wouldn’t like his answer, even if it’s true.

 

As with nearly everything important these days, Harry’s sanity lies with Severus Snape’s heartbeat.

And he doesn’t know how safe that is.

 

*

It’s twenty sickles to rent an owl for a month.

It’s ten fifteen am when said owl leaves for Hogwarts.

Ron quietly enquires how he feels and Harry doesn’t have a response.

 

*

“An open air wedding is so beautiful.” Ginny says.

“We’ll have to make sure the fairies have enough bark to munch on during the reception.” Luna says.

 

It’s quarter to one and no sign of an answer.

 

Harry is tying mock-pearl decorations to the chairs. They’re expecting one hundred and fifty guests, none of them named Severus Snape. Harry, of course, could bring a plus one, but everyone already sort of assumed he’d be attending alone, and Harry doesn’t even know if Severus is the type that enjoys going to weddings.

 

It’s half past two and still nothing.

 

After the chairs are done, Molly invites them in for cake-tasting.

After that, it’s organising alcohol, tables and getting rid of the gnomes in the garden. Yes, she knows they’ll be back in two days and the wedding is in ten, but _it needs to be done._

 

By the time they’re done with everything, it’s five thirty, and Harry hasn’t been able to think about anything else all day.

 

Maybe he should ask Mrs. Weasley for the use of their Floo.

Perhaps Snape has a fireplace in his quarters. He could just stick his head in. That would be fine, right?

 

*

When he finally holds Snape’s answer in his hand, it’s a lot longer than he expected.

 

It starts out with:

 

_“Potter, you imbecile,_

 

_you have to give a bird some food for a journey as long as this,_

_the poor animal was almost dead by the time it got here._

 

_Albeit fortunately, the state of the bird had been the reason your letter provided a welcome distraction from the idioticies of certain professors during today’s staff meeting who interrupted their lengthy chin wagging about their gastly work-anecdotes to coo over the ’poor, exhausted birdie’.”_

 

 

Harry glances at the bird. It looks completely fine to him, in fact, it’s already asleep, curled up into a cute brown feathery ball.

 

_“As for the contents of your note, I would have expected you to at the very least, stick to the polite, long standing structures of letter writing which surely could be regarded as something achievable from a civilised, if muggle-raised adult (?) wizard._

 

_But alas, I shouldn’t make such assumptions about you.”_

 

Harry can’t even properly remember what he wrote. It was something short and panicky about how Snape was doing and his immediate need to know if he was fine. And there is the answer to that, finally:

 

_“My health is continuing to improve. Madam Pomfrey advises to ’ease myself back’ to the everydays tasks with ’great patience’ toward myself.”_

 

It’s… not as good as a heartbeat, but then, nothing comes close. Snape, amazingly, goes on: 

 

_“I wish there were some opportunity to do so without so many undesirable tales about student mischieves._

 

_They act like their subject is the only one that needs constant vigilant attention from the instructor. So a Hufflepuff turned another into a chair? Boo-hoo. If I turn my back, a whole classroom could end up dead because of a single mistaken ingredient._

 

_Why, you may ask, am I sharing this information with you instead of the faculty that it truly belong to? Minerva notified me I couldn’t comment anymore, because my ’sarcastic snippets don’t help the teachers who need to properly ventilate’. What utter nonsense._

 

_I merely pointed out how ill-equipped some people are of making a distinction between a good and a lousy student…”_

 

He carries on like that for two more pages, and then abruptly, in the middle of a sentence Snape just drew a long line and signed his name.

 

Harry thinks about it and concludes that he probably just needed a way to occupy himself until the end of the other teacher’s discussion, especially since at points in the long text of insults hurled at other people, the topic changes rather abruptly sometimes, as if mirroring something else happening in the background.

 

It’s interesting, and almost nice, in a twisted way, being Severus’s sounding board.

 

He elects not to respond to the frankly alarming number of sarcastic comments in his letter, and writes back simply:

 

_“I’m glad you are getting better, but please let me know how you feel today._

_Greetings, Harry”_

 

Then he thinks about what Hermione would say, and adds:

_“Ps.: Thank you for your long letter. The Burrow is very busy, because we’re getting ready for Ginny and Luna’s wedding. Awaiting your response, H.”_

 

*

 

The next morning brings The Prophet with the huge headline: WIZENGAMOT STARTS DEATH EATER TRIALS.

 

The half-eaten breakfast rebels in Harry’s stomach. According to the article, the trials will be open to the public. There’s a list of dates next to the accused witches and wizards names. The Malfoys are amongst the first, Snape is in the last five.

 

Before Harry could decide what to do, the fireplace flares up with a message. Charlie is the first who steps over and picks it up.

 

“Order meeting tonight at Grimmauld Place. Eight pm.” He reads aloud. “It’s Kingsley’s signature.”

 

The whole table starts buzzing.

 

Ron leans over to him.

 

“Should we try to contact ’Mione?” He asks.

 

Harry nods, and thinks about it.

 

“We need to rent another owl.”

 

Ron’s eyebrows disappear under his hair. He regards Harry for a minute, anger and unhappiness and worry playing over his face.

 

“Okay, mate.” He whispers at last, which seems silly and oddly serious with so much noise around them. “You seriously need to start talking about your issues, but we’ll talk about that later. Why not send a Patronus instead? It will be quicker.”

 

Harry’s shocked into silence. How could he not think about that? Maybe there would even be a way to send some of Snape’s audible heartbeats via Patronus, or is that too weird a request, asking him to perform a spell to make it loud enough to carry over a message?

 

Ron was talking about Hermione, though.

 

’Yeah.’ Harry agrees quietly. It takes some time, but eventually the stag rushes away to find their curly haired friend. His usual happy memories are still there. Flying, his friends laughing, it’s there, just a bit dimmed. But they’re there, and they have a soundtrack now: a steady doom, dadoom, doom, dadoom.

 

*

It’s a good thing Hermione can make it, because she’s the one to run out of the meeting after him. She finds him massaging his knuckles. The wooden rampling laughs at him, even after getting hit, and that doesn’t help Harry’s mood.

“Did you hear what he said?” He asks Hermione, not caring that his voice is loud enough to carry into the other room.

 

“What is your problem?” Hermione asks gently. She puts a hand on his arm.

 

“MY problem?! They didn’t—” His voice breaks and the anger leaves him with his exhaled breath. “Hermione, they didn’t even _invite him_.”

 

There is something akin to heartbreak in Hermione’s eyes.

 

“Come here.” She says, and hugs Harry tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other flat on his back. It feels nice, and it lasts for a long time, but Harry can’t quite make himself relax.

 

When she pulls away, she doesn’t step back. She looks him in the eyes and clearly pronounces every word.

 

“We will not let him get hurt again. We know you care about him. Ron and I are on your side.” She waits until Harry exhales shakily. “But Harry, tonight isn’t primarily about him. It’s about a dozen others. Draco, Narcissa, Lucius, Nott, McNair…”

 

“I don’t give a fuck about them.” Harry spits between the names.

 

Hermione sighs.

 

“You do, or at least, you should. Let’s think about the consequences here, Harry. What if we lock them all into Azkaban? They are almost a fourth of our adult generation…” She trails off when Harry shrugs. He knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t deal with this now. She must see something in his expression because she continues: “We need to make sure we’re giving the _right ones_ a second chance, just like Dumbledore’s given one to Snape when he was our age.”

 

Harry recoils. He… never thought about it that way.

 

Hermione squeezes his hand.

 

“Would you promise to think about it?” She prompts.

 

When Harry nods, her answering smile is like the brightest sunshine.

 

“Good.” She encourages. “Then get a pen, and paper and the Prophet’s list. Go into the kitchen, have a cuppa and write down who’d you recommend for pardon.”

 

Harry quirks his head towards the tactical room they just stormed out of.

 

“And the meeting…?” He asks.

 

”Will go on without you. I’ll go back. Ron or I can tell you everything you want to know afterwards. I expect we’ll discuss much the same. Debate a list together. It would be good, don’t you think, to compare our lists at the end?”

 

Harry can’t prevent a tired smirk from slipping onto his face. It’s such a Hermione way of thinking.

 

“Okay.” He agrees, and impulsively draws his best friend closer to hug her once more. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

Harry sits in the kitchen and sips his tea. There are faint sound of an argument coming from the meeting, but he doesn’t pay attention to them. He writes down the first name, without hesitation. He thinks harder about the rest, worrying his lip, or puts the pen into his mouth. Sometimes he writes down half a name, just to change his mind, then jots it down again. Adds a question mark here and there. Crosses them out. After the Prophet’s list is exhausted, he writes down Snape’s name again. It doesn’t feel enough, so he goes over it again, making it bolder. Underlines it. Snape is important. He’s more than the sum of his mistakes, his bravery and his heartbeat.

 

In the end, this is how Harry’s list looks like:

 

_Severus Snape_

_Narcissa Malfoy_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Theodore Nott_

_The Ares Family_

**_Severus Snape_ **

 

*

_„If you are so very busy with the wedding, surely you don’t need me to continue with this charade. I’m alive, and I’m planning to stay that way despite what the Wizarding World’s fancies._

 

_It would be better for your reputation to seize your communications with me._

_Wishing you a long and fulfilling life,_

_Severus Snape.”_

 

*

It turns out, Severus does own a fireplace. This fact seems to surprise the older wizard much more than it does Harry; he jerks forward from where he’s sitting on his sofa, and the alcohol spills out of his glass and over his hand.

 

He curses, while Harry repeats:

“Can I come over?”

 

Snape glares at him, looking his old, cranky Potions Master-self Harry hasn’t seen since their captivity.

 

“You cannot read, you blasted child?”

 

“I was an adult in your letter the last time, so how does this work exactly?”

 

“Every time you do something reckless and foolish, I deduct a few years.”

 

Harry smiles ruefully.

 

“That’s how House Points work, Severus, but not age.”

 

Snape looks taken aback by the use of his first name, but he quickly recovers and fires a curse at Harry’s head.

 

Harry pulls his head back, out of the fire, coughing. It seems all Snape did was shoot some air at the fire to blow the ashes into his face. Harry grins. Fuck, but that man is resourceful.

 

He waits until the coughing subsides, then reaches into the pot (takes a note to buy the Weasleys some more), and says again:

 

”Severus Snape’s quarters, Hogwarts Castle.”

 

He gets through without any trouble.

 

Severus is standing by the sofa now, scowling at him.

 

“I never gave you permission to call me by my first name.” He spits.

 

Harry widens his eyes, trying to look innocent.

 

“But you call _me_ Harry!”

 

“I do not!” Snape snaps indignantly. Harry can’t believe he fell for that.

 

“Yeah, but you should. I asked you to.” He smiles at the very visible thunders gathering on Severus’s face.

 

“Do you think you’re amusing?” Snape hisses, still trying to stake him to the floor with his eyes. But he hasn’t cursed him again, so it’s practically an invitation.

 

“No. I’m scared, and I’d like to talk to you.” He notes the momentary shock on Severus’s face and it fills his stomach with something warm. “Can I come over? …Please?”

 

It might be that added please that does it. Snape turns his back to him, and mutters:

 

“Don’t get dirt on the carpet.”

 

Harry steps over, sits down, and stares at his ex professor's back until he shiwels around.

 

“What on earth—” He starts, but Harry starts talking the same moment.

 

“I can’t believe you think I give a toss about my reputation?”

 

Snape looks like someone who’s tired of being constantly surprised. He moves behind the sofa and grips it with his long fingers.

 

“Why don’t you just go ahead and enlighten me, then? Don’t spare any details. Talk about everything you came for, _Harry_ , I _so_ wish to learn.”

 

Fuck, but it’s still so _easy_ being angry at this sarcasm-ridden bastard.

 

“FINE!” He shots back, and then of course, doesn’t know where to start. Snape’s lips are moving into a smile full of mockery.

 

The only thing that worked on him so far was complete and brutal honesty, Harry realises. _That_ takes the wind out of Snape’s sails. That, and intimacy.

 

“I’m worried that they’ll lock you into Azkaban or sentence you to death or something and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

 

Snape stares at him.

 

“There was no death sentence in Wizarding Britain since 1692.”

 

“I know, but, bare with me, please?”

 

Snape nods, and seems angry at himself for doing so a mere second later.

 

“I also worry about you disappearing into America or Asia or where ever overnight.” Harry holds his hand up, because he sees the words forming in Severus’s mouth. “I worry about you getting kidnapped by uncaptured Death Eaters or their revenge-filled children. I worry about something accidently falling on you, or you tripping on the stairs and breaking your neck and I worry about other teachers whispering behind your back and everyone and anyone not understanding and _plotting_ to hurt you, I worry---”

 

He can’t continue, because he can’t breathe. It’s not just because of his words, desperately needed to let out and finally broken free; it’s also because of the naked, vulnerable wonder on Snape’s face. Harry keeps sucking in air but somehow it doesn’t reach his lungs. His struggle is frighteningly loud in the otherwise silent room.

 

It’s not working, he can’t breathe anymore, he forgot how? There are black spots in front of his eyes, and he thinks ’this is it, I’m going to die in Snape’s surprisingly cozy living room’.

 

But suddenly there is a pressure on his neck and a hand nudging his knees apart and pushing his face between them.

 

“Try to slow your breathing. Regulate the rhythm. In, out, in, out. Do it with me, come on.”

 

The next minutes are a blur of struggling concentration and sweaty desperation, narrated by Snape’s deep, monotone voice. It gets slightly better when Harry gets hold of Severus’s wrist and can feel his pulse. It’s quicker than he remembers, but it only takes a few seconds to get used to this new speed. To get his breath back to something approaching normal: that takes longer.

 

 _“Fuck.”_  He says with feeling when he’s pretty sure it’s safe.

 

Snape… makes a sound that can only be described as a giggle, but by the time Harry snapped his head over, his unoccupied hand is covering his mouth. However, the smile is in his eyes a second longer, so Harry catches that before it transforms into careful, antagonistic neutralness.

 

They sit in silence. Severus looks uncomfortable, and Harry is too, but he can’t relinquish the rhythmic pulse just yet. He wants to hold onto it until the very moment Snape remembers to ask for his hand back, and then preferably for a few more seconds longer while he pretends he didn’t understand the request.

 

“I could… do without a repeat performance – of this.” Snape tells him hesitantly, weaving his free hand around to indicate what he means.

 

Harry feels his cheeks warm.

 

“I’m sorry.” He offers. Snape humms. Harry risks: “It helps. If you write back, if you let me know you’re okay.”

 

Severus shakes his head, which makes his greasy hair slowly flutter around his face.

 

“May I ask you something?”

 

Harry nods. It can’t be worse than what he already revealed, and they’re basically sitting holding hands. It doesn’t get more intimate than this. Probably.

 

“Were you always this messed up, or is that a recent development?”

 

Harry laughs, because there is something in Snape’s tone that suggests it’s a joke. But it’s never that simple with Severus Snape, so after a moment, he replies with:

 

“It’s half and half, I guess? I only had troubles with eating, and… general anger management issues, I reckon. Before.”

 

Snape looks at him as if he’s reevaluating something with great difficulty. Harry pushes his glasses up on his nose, to see him better. Seeing this, Snape quirks up his right eyebrow and drawls:

 

“So that, and you’re miniature and dangerously short sighted which you can’t possibly hope to correct with those horrible spectacles, and you’re brash and brazen like a true Gryffindor.” Snape takes a slow breath before he delivers what he probably believes to be the crushing end. “What a catch, Pot— _Harry_.”

 

Harry doesn’t really know how to react to that. What does Severus mean by this?

 

“Although, I suppose you did destroy the Dark Wizard of the Century.” Severus allows.

_Oh._

 

“You think it balances out?”

 

Snape shrugs. He fixes his eyes on the table.

 

“It might.”

 

“Is that… good?” Harry asks, completely losing the thread of the conversation.

 

“It is what it is.” Snape answers, then pulls his wrist out of Harry’s grip. “I trust you’ll find your way back without trouble?”

 

“Yes, I… thank you. Goodnight.”

 

And it is a good night indeed.

 

*

Next day’s letter makes Harry smile.

 

 _Didn’t get kidnapped, hurt or injured today. Didn’t decide to emigrate either, which is the bigger accomplishment after the_ **_delights_ ** _I had to sit through. I daresay I deserve a medal._

 

Harry draws him one. It’s not very well done, but the point of it is the ’engraving’ which can be read easily enough. It says: ’Number 1 Sarcastic Bastard’. Harry even asks to borrow some colourful ink from Luna to make it more festive.

He has to wait for a half hour before his owl comes back to their room. When it finally arrives, he hesitates. Is it too much? Surely, Severus will know it’s only a joke (even if it’s the truth)?

 

Possessed by a crazy idea, he signs the picture with: _Love, Harry._

 

His night is even more restless than usual.

 

*

Snape doesn’t write back.

 

Harry feels himself spiralling towards a full-blown panic attack by the evening, when there’s a rattle on their bedroom door.

 

Ron is on the bed next to him, half-asleep on a quidditch magazine.

 

“Yeah?” He indicates to the person they are welcome to open the door.

 

Hermione sticks her head in.

 

“Boys? Are you up?”

 

Ron is out of the bed in an instant. “Hermione!”

 

If he wasn’t so keyed up, Harry would probably laugh at his puppy-like eagerness.

 

She comes in and all of them move over to Harry’s bed to sit in a circle.

 

“So what’s up?” Ron asks. They both suspect what’s happened, of course, just from her presence and the sheer joy of her expression. Said joy is manifesting in tiny sparkles shooting out of her curly hair. It’s a lovely sight.

 

“I’ve found my parents!” Hermione shares and they squeal and clap and hug like they used to do when they were still children: but the happiness of it is genuine.

 

“We’re so glad.” Harry assures her with a bright smile. “They’re okay?”

 

“Yeah, completely. I’ve removed the spell and brought them back already. They were very disturbed, but they understood, eventually.” She makes a face that illustrates it wasn’t so simple, but soon beams at them again: “They want to meet you guys. They said they haven’t seen you in years.”

 

Harry thinks back. It’s quite possible, with everything that’s been going on.

 

“Sure.” Ron agrees. “Why don’t you invite them to the wedding?”

 

“It’s the brides’ job to invite people, Ronald!” Hermione chides.

 

“But I’m sure they wouldn’t mind!” Ron insists and miraculously, Hermione lets it go with a smile.

 

“Whatever. Are you coming then? It’s only six, and I thought we could go clubbing in Muggle London afterwards?”

 

Ron and Harry glance at each other. They’re not particularly good dancers, or they weren’t last time they tried, but it’s hard to deny anything from Hermione when she’s this happy.

 

Ron shrugs.

 

“Yeah, why not.”

*

It’s the best-worst idea ever. Hermione’s parents are nice, although still shaken up. They eat and drink and talk about nothing and everything, and by the time they hit the Muggle Underground, all three of them are pretty drunk. They follow a few fellow teenage girls into a disco.

 

Once there, however, they awkwardly stand around in the sea of writhing bodies, trying to get used to the obnoxiously loud music and the flashing lights.

They try to move and copy the dance-moves of people: but after a while, they become awfully aware that everyone around them is paired up, slowly frotting against someone else while some are trying to suffocate each other with their tongues.

 

“Maybe we should go to a gay bar?” Hermione shouts into their ears.

 

“What for?!” Ron shouts back.

 

“So Harry can snog with boys!” Hermione yells over the music.

 

Harry freezes. For a second, he doesn’t hear the people or the music: he can only feel his beating heart.

 

Ron’s gaze flickers over both of them.

 

“But who will _I_ snog with?” He yells back.

 

Just like that, all the noise is back. Harry prays that his legs won’t give out.

 

“Me!” Hermione replies, too quickly to be anything but a freudian slip.

 

Harry watches as both of his best friends realise what she just said. Ron goes tomato-red, and Hermione flushes a to a deep blueberry-ish shade; they both look identically embarrassed with their white and black skin glowing hot.

 

It’s Ron who breaks the noise again. He grabs both their hands, and shouts:

 

“Let’s go!”

*

 

There is an awkward tube, then bus-ride where they all avoid each other’s gazes. Ron and Hermione are still holding hands, but everyone is too busy staring at their laps to bring it up.

 

Harry wonders how long she’s known. If Ron knew, before tonight. Why they never mentioned it before. Did this mean they were completely fine with it?

 

The pleasant buzz of the alcohol completely dissipated by the time they get to the club. Harry goes to the bar straight away to order them each two tequila shots. It’s easier to do then look around. Hermione and Ron are waiting a few steps behind him, staring into each others eyes. Their other hands found each other, and they seem oblivious to anyone outside their little bubble.

Harry breaks that bubble mercilessly. He’s not ready to be left alone. Thankfully, they don’t seem to mind so much, grabbing eagerly for the liquid courage.

 

They click their glasses together. Do the second shot.

 

They all look around afterwards, but it’s pretty much the same to the previous place, with obvious exception of more blokes around.

 

“Well… have fun!” Ron shouts at his direction.

 

“If you want to blow someone, use protection!” Hermione adds, then at the boys’ reactions continues: “What? Safer sex! Important!”

 

Harry and Ron exchange another shocked glance. But Ron’s eyes widen a bit more, and then there is an arm over Harry’s stomach and a warm body shimming into him.

 

Harry turns in the man’s arm. He’s excited and afraid at the same time. The stranger is taller than him (that’s not a surprise), and quite handsome. He moves his own body to the rhythm against his, and Harry finds he can follow his lead. After some hesitation, he sneaks his hands around the strangers neck.

 

A few minutes of somehow erotic slow dancing pass before Harry remembers to look around for his friends.

 

They are a couple of people away, kissing. Harry can’t help but feel slightly weirded out, but of course he’s happy for them.

 

Tall and handsome introduces himself a minute later, but Harry doesn’t understand it completely because of the noise. It’s Aaron or Ewan or something similar, and ultimately it doesn’t matter, because soon they’re kissing, and then Harry is very turned on and veered towards the back of the club.

 

Thankfully, there are condom-machines on the walls of the bathrooms.

 

*

 

The three of them go back to Hermione’s for the night. His friends are grinning ridiculously, and Harry can’t help but join them. All of their lips are red and chapped, but Ron and Hermione still keep stealing kisses between giggles.

 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Hermione asks him eventually, bumping his shoulders.

 

“Yep.” Harry winks at her, then risks sharing: “Used protection. Both times.”

 

Both of their eyes boggle at him. There is a minute of silence when Harry debates if it was a mistake – but then they laugh and make funny faces and Ron claps his arm saying:

 

“Good on you, mate!”

 

And then Hermione asks, a little too loud:

 

“So, what it’s like to suck cock?”

 

Harry takes a long look at Ron’s glowing happy face which makes it harder to tell where the man’s face ends and his hair starts.

“I think you’re about to find out, maybe.”

Ron chokes, while Hermine looks contemplative, and then they all giggle, and try to hide behind their hands from the disapproving huffs of other passengers on the late night train.

 

*

Harry wakes from a nightmare around nine the next morning. As every time since their little shared hell, Snape is the first person who comes to mind, but this time it’s worse because Snape didn’t say how he was for more than 28 hours now.

 

_There is nothing wrong with him, he’s just sulking because of the drawing you sent._

_There is nothing wrong wi—_

_But what if there is?!_

 

He doesn’t realise he’s shaking at first. When his teeth keep clicking together, that’s when he notices; and he can’t stop it.

 

He’s rocking himself back and forth on his bed when Ron finds him. (Was he in the room? Did he come from outside? Harry doesn’t know.)

 

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

 

“Sna--pe” He forces out. “No… n--no… news.”

 

Ron shouts for Hermione, then sits before him and grabs hold of his hands.

 

“Snape is fine, Harry. You both got out, he’s in Hogwarts. He’s recovered, he’d gone back to being the same great big bat we knew, he’s wearing black and doesn’t wash his hair. Hurry, please.” He throws in Hermione’s direction, who came into the room a few moments ago, and probably accessed the situation already. She leaves as quickly as she came.

 

“He’s fine, Harry.” Ron says, with that complete seriousness Harry saw him make bloodcurdling decisions. It sounds somewhat believable. “Let’s imagine what he’s doing, okay? It’s past nine, so he’s probably had breakfast already. If he’s a vampire, like we always guessed he was, then he feasted on the blood of the innocent.” He keeps talking in that same reassuring voice, but Harry can see it in his eyes that he’s afraid too. So Snape isn’t really alright, is he?

 

“…But if he wants to maintain his reputation, he will go to the Great Hall and eat with the other teachers. What does he have for breakfast, Harry? Do you know?”

 

It’s the strangest thing, but it helps for a second, having to think of what Snape might eat.

 

“Full English.” He groans out.

 

“I bet he does, he seems the sort,” Ron encourages. “What does he drink? For show?”

 

“H-he’s not a—vampire!” Harry protests, trying to convey his annoyment with his eyes. He still can’t stop rocking, but the shaking has subsided a little.

 

Ron glares back at him, but he doesn’t move.

 

“Well, I bloody wonder, you know. He’s got you to go completely nuts about him, are you sure he hasn’t made you his subjugate?”

 

“He’s—a num-ber one—bastard, but—not—a—vampire,” Harry pants, and Ron squeezes his hands in response.

 

“Whatever you say. So after he finished his completely human breakfast, where does he go?”

 

“Meetings. Faculty.”

 

If Ron is surprised by this information, he doesn’t show.

 

“And what does he do there?”

 

“Scrawls. Insults everyone. He-- Writes me letters.” Harry says, speaking almost fine now, when Ron’s eyes go wide.

 

“He writes you…?” He starts demanding, but Hermione arrives at this moment, out of breath. She tosses the Marauders Map on the bed and says ’I’m up to no good’, then as the writing starts to appear, she says to her wand: ’show me Severus Snape’. And her wand zooms in on the name.

 

Harry lets go of Ron and grabs the paper. Snape is in a big room, his name floating between Bimba’s and Flitwick’s. There are other teacher there as well, all approximately the same distance from each other.

 

He stares at his name for minutes. His eyes are dry and hurt, but at least the shaking stopped.

 

Hermione touches his shoulder tentatively.

 

“Harry, we need to do something, this isn’t healthy.”

 

Ron murmurs his approval from his other side.

 

Harry doesn’t bare to look at them.

 

“I know.” He allows. “But it isn’t so bad, when…”

 

Ron’s snort effectively finishes his sentence.

 

“When _he writes you letters?_ Harry, this is bonkers.”

 

“Maybe I’m bonkers then!” Harry snaps. “Because I happen to care about Snape! Utter madness, I know, when he’s only a sodding vampire!”

 

Ron at least looks slightly ashamed, but he doesn’t let up.

 

“It’s not about Snape, and you know it. You can like whoever you want, Harry, but getting into a fucking panic attack over them is just not cool.”

 

“What Ron’s trying to say,’ Hermione interrupts before Harry could shout at him: “Is that it’s not good being this dependant on one person.”

 

They are right, he knows. But on the other hand…

 

“I’m dependant on you too.” Harry says quietly.

 

There is something fierce in Ron’s eyes, while Hermione’s cloud over with tears.

 

“That’s different.”

 

“We’re your friends. Your family, Harry.”

 

They draw him into their arms, enveloping him from both sides. Hermione kisses his face. They rock together, forward and back. Forward and back.

 

“I’ve prayed, every time, that you’d live.” Harry whispers, the confession finding its way out as easy as his tears. ’I’ve prayed every time that you’d be all right.”

 

Hermione quietly sobs into him, while Ron hugs him tighter.

 

“We love you, Harry.” His best friend says, his voice raspy. “We were so fucking worried…”

 

He swallows the knot in his throat to _make them understand._

 

“That’s… that’s how I feel with Severus.” He explains desperately. “He was… I thought he’d die, I thought I would be alone, I---”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Hermione chokes out. “I should have done something in the forest. If only I’d been quicker, perhaps…”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Ron and Harry say at the same time and that makes them all snort out a chuckle. It’s wet and bubbly, but it’s a start.

 

Then they lay down and plan their apartment; they lay around and decide to go shopping, once the wedding frenzie has died down.

 

*

The next day: still no letter from Severus.

 

Harry helps out in everything he can while doing the wedding preparations. He goes dress-shopping with Luna. (Ginny is wearing her mother’s, but Luna’s mums got destroyed in the fire that took her life.) He’s not the best help, because he thinks she looks great in everything, but they have fun.

The press finds them between two bouticks, and they slip into Muggle London to avoid them. It turns out Muggle London has _a lot more_ wedding gowns options than the Wizarding bit did, and they sink in and resurface again in different shops.

 

Harry forgot how easy it was to be with Luna. They pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend in one place, so Harry can take a turn with being dressed and circled around while Luna rests on the cream-coloured couch.

 

“Do you want to try on a gown?” Luna asks, lazily rubbing a silky dress between her fingers.

 

“It didn’t occur to me,” Harry admits, surprised at the idea. “Why, would you like to be in a suit instead?”

 

“Not really.” Luna shrugs. “But I could if I wanted to. I just find it a tiny bit unfair, boys not being offered the option of skirts and dresses.”

 

Harry agrees. It isn’t fair.

 

“There are kilts?” He offers, but Luna shakes her head.

 

“Not the same.”

 

Harry does try on a wedding gown, then, just for the sake of being fair. It’s an unusual feeling, being in the big, white dress.

 

“You’re pretty.” Luna decides, and that’s that.

 

*

When they get home, there is a short note waiting for him.

 

_Keep breathing, Harry._

_SS_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone!


	4. part four. trials.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape goes to trial.

**part four. trials.**

 

Draco Malfoy’s trial is one of the firsts, and they collectively go. Harry sits between Ginny and Neville. It seems like everyone they know is in attendance: friends, family and Hogwarts staff.

It takes some time until the Aurors sit everyone down and secure the whole room, but Harry’s glad for the chance to catch up with Neville. Neville is starting a business but is struggling with the finances. His family is not a wealthy one, not after his grandmother had to pay Neville’s parents' lifelong treatment. Harry offers him a large sum of money without really thinking about what other people would consider appropriate. Neville stares at him, gob-smacked, and his spluttered response is unintelligible.

 

Ron is shaking his head in bewildered next to them, but before he could add his two cents, they bring the accused in.

Draco Malfoy was on both the Order’s and Harry’s list, so the assigned Order representative takes over the defense first, and later the negotiations of his punishment.

 

Draco nods at their little box when they take him away, and Harry catches Neville nodding back. Times really must be changing – Harry thinks.

 

*

 

The closer Snape’s trial spirals, the shorter his letters became.

 

When it’s only 

 

“ _Fine.”_

 

– the period so forcefully driven into the paper that it left a hole, Harry revises his idea of not seeing him beforehand.

 

 

The night right before his trial, Severus sits on his carpet when Harry shoves his head through the Floo. This takes the man slightly by surprise.

 

But Snape waves a hand to indicate he can come over, and his movements seem a lot more loose than usual.

 

“Are you drunk?” Harry questions, but the answer is fairly obvious.

 

“None of your business,” Severus says. “Firewhisky?”

 

Harry shrugs and drops down next to him.

 

“This stuff is vile.” He offers after he chugs down some straight from the bottle.

 

“I know.” Severus agrees and drinks as well. “’T was a gift. Might as well…”

 

The threat of the upcoming trial blooms between them in the air, poisoning their thoughts.

 

“It will be fine,” Harry promises. He doesn’t know, in fact, and would be terrified if he’d let himself linger on it, but he decided it’s only fair to allow Snape to fall apart now. It’s his turn, sort of.

 

Severus shudders then lets out such a broken-sounding laugh that Harry wishes he could bleach his ears.

 

Before he’s even aware of moving, he’s curled around the longer haired wizard like ivy around a tree. His hands find Snape’s heart like it’s a natural extension of his own body. It’s quite like a hug, Harry muses, but perhaps that would entail Snape relaxing somewhat, which he does not.

It’s still one of the best things that happened to Harry all week.

 

“I mean it, you will get a full pardon. I’m certain of it.” He tells the scrawny figure in his arms quietly. He doesn’t see Snape’s face from this angle but he hears the man swallowing multiple times. His heart races in his hold. Like to a panicked little bird, Harry speaks to it in his mind. _’You’re alright. I’ve got you. I won’t let you get hurt.’_

 

It takes several reassurances to have Snape go limp and settle against his chest. Strangely, what does it is:

 

“Even if they make the worst possible decision, I will break you out and we’ll hide away at the end of the world.”

 

It’s possible, though, that it’s a coincidence, and Severus simply couldn’t keep his position so stiff any longer, while he completely stopped listening after Harry mentioned releasing the tarantulas from the Forest to feast on the members of the Wizengamot, which was one of his first (and more creative) ideas.

 

The heartbeat slows under his palm, and to Harry’s utter fascination, he can also feel it tremble through his own chest where it’s pressed tightly to Snape’s back.

 

*

Even before everyone is seated, Hermione and Ron offer a hand to hold from each side of him. They are  _truly_ the best friends anyone could ever wish to have.

 

After the first minute though, they both hiss and pull it back. Harry feels like someone took away his lifesaver jacket on a sinking boat. The brightest witch of their century finds a solution to their problem in less than five seconds, though. Hermione places a spell on their hands, and they slide it back into Harry’s: they feel like warm stones. Now he can squeeze as tightly as he can and he won’t break any fingers.

 

Harry wishes a similar spell could be applied to the whole world.

“Please wait out the end before you do anything stupid.” Ron pleads from the corner of his mouth as they escort Snape in.

 

He keeps up a good twenty minutes of a shouting match with wizards and witches five times his age and supposedly his intellect as well, then he is forcefully escorted out of the room.

Five minutes later, the same Aurors deposit Ron next to him in much the same manner.

 

Ron huffs irritatedly while he says with a vexed shrug sent this way:

“To be fair, I’ve used much more magical curse words than you did.”

 

Harry crushes him into a tight hug because otherwise, he’s afraid he’d hit him, just because of all the nervous energy trying to find a way out of his body.

 

“He’s almost out of the water,” Ron whispers to him. “Even before your speech, more than half the Wizengamot was sympathetic. Don’t bring the house down on us now, okay?”

 

Harry looks down at the sparks gathered at the end of his fingertips. He pulls away from Ron and shakes them off carefully, and starts pacing instead.

 

*

 

It takes a stupidly long time to wrestle himself back into the room as the people start to fiddle out; it doesn’t help matters that he’s Harry Potter, and basically everyone wants to ask him something about Severus or the war (or worse, their captivity).

 

By the time they force their way in and Ron sent the last member of the press to hell, Severus has been relocated from the black chair with the huge handcuffs and chains to where Harry had been sitting before he was thrown out.

Hermione is standing next to him, and she appears to be talking to him while Snape stares away in the distance.

 

“Hey,” Harry steps up closer to them. He wants to ask how it went, but Snape’s suddenly refocusing death-glare stops him.

 

“What the bloody fuck, Potter?” He snaps, with the ferocity of a mad dog, and Harry is as taken aback as Hermione’s gasp and Ron’s involuntary step back suggest his friends are.

 

“Oi, watch it!” Ron warns, raising a fist angrily. “Harry _just_ —”

 

“This is none of your concern, Mr. Weasley, so I kindly suggest you stay out of it.” The threat in Snape’s voice is unmistakable. “In fact, why don’t you and Miss Granger take a walk while I… talk to your _dear friend_ here?”

 

Judging from the  color of Ron’s head, he’s a  _nanosecond_ from exploding, but then Hermione’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

 

“You know what, I think we will.” She grabs Ron by the arm and fixes Severus with a murderous look. “But know that if you dare to hurt him, you’re not only a dead man, you can also say goodbye to your brain, hands, and genitals.”

Snape looks too angry to react to that with more than a snarl, although Harry half-amusedly discovers that it mostly makes an appearance by the time Hermione’s turned her back on them.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, stealing himself for Snape’s unwarranted but inevitable wrath.

 

“WHAT’S WRONG?” Snape repeats indignantly, with twice the volume. He pretty much yells into his face, although it is very echoey in the empty courtroom. He stands to his full height and being this close, some of his spit is landing on Harry. “WHAT’S WRONG?! HOW ABOUT THE WHOLE BLOODY SPEECH YOU GAVE?”

 

Harry blinks.

“Calm down.” He suggests, but it has the same effect as pissing in the wind.

Snape does not calm down at all.

 

“HAVE YOU EVEN HEARD YOURSELF?!” He demands.

 

Bloody hell, yes, Harry did, in fact. And from his point of view, after one gets such a passionate and heartfelt defense just to secure their bony arse, the least they could be is slightly grateful, nay, polite at the minimum. This reaction is as far away from that as he is from the Moon. He crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“Is this the part where you actually expect an answer or should I just wait until you’re finished?”

 

If Snape won’t do him some bodily harm in the next seconds, it will be the world’s next miracle.

Severus, surprisingly, bites into his own lips instead, although he seems to be menacingly trying to burn Harry alive with his gaze.

 

“ _You_. I’ve never asked for this. You.” He curses, voice dipping into that dangerous low that had the effect of waking up some inner instinct in people that screamed ’get away! leave your loved ones and run for your life!’. Yeah, Harry was never really good at picking up on those.

 

”You sounded like---” He takes a deep breath, and Harry just notices his fingers are crawling into the seat in front of him like bird’s claws. ”Like a lovesick fool, no, WORSE, you sounded like a fucking teenager with a textbook case of the crush on the bad guy!”

 

There must be something like shock in Harry’s eyes, because Severus continues, in a much meaner tone:

 

“Which we BOTH KNOW is fucking ridiculous, I wouldn’t touch you with a stick if you’d be the last person on Earth, but guess who the media will chew out and brand a pedophile by tomorrow morning? The innocent, wide-eyed Gryffindor Hero or the Barely Pardoned Ex-Death Eater?”

 

Harry feels as if a giant is pressing down on his chest. He can’t breathe. He didn’t even consider this. He was…

 

Severus chuckles, but there is nothing nice about the sound. He mimics Harry’s crossed arms.

 

“Go on, make an educated guess. Oh wait, you aren’t able to do that.”

 

He suddenly deflects, his shoulders dropping, but his voice doesn’t lose anything of his sarcasm.

 

“Be a good boy and never attempt to seek me out again. I’ll be busy trying to save what’s left of my career after your performance today.”

 

He steps around Harry and billows out of the room without taking a step back. Harry stumbles to the chair and starts wondering what the bloody fuck had happened, and how it got so out of hand.

 

*

Funnily, next day’s Prophet’s headline declares: ’Harry Potter: Saviour Driven Mad By War?’. There is a rather artistic series of pictures showing Harry’s face in contorted anger. The miniature him snarls and shouts angrily. However, the article barely mentions Snape, going on about Harry’s mental health in gleeful detail instead, abruptly changing into speculations about his love life. There is a theory (confirmed by a close source to Harry Potter, who of course wishes to remain anonymous) that he lost the love of his life in the battle that commenced between the Order and Death Eaters as they were attempting to free him from the mansion they kept him in. This mysterious girl isn’t named, out of respect of her surviving family, but it’s quite likely that the news of Her death (and the child she was carrying) made Harry Potter go slightly off the rail.

 

Hermione snorts at the paper, Ron doesn’t even bother reading it. The twins make a running joke of it through the day, only stopping when Ginny threatens to hex them if they ’don’t shut up for five minutes’.

 

Harry considers sending the paper to Snape, underlining the two half sentences where his name is mentioned in regards to Harry ( ‘ seen attending the trial of formal Death Eater/ Spy Severus Snape’; and ‘spoke out in defence of his ex-professor, Potions Master Severus Snape,  who was found innocent of  alleged war crimes’ ).

 

Then, as he contemplates how much of a passive-aggressive ’fuck you’ it would be of him, suddenly the point arrives in the wedding preparation process where there is not much more to do then keep the brides away from micromanaging unnecessary things to the last possible minute, so is hope of distracting the girls to let them relax, Hermione invites Ginny and Luna flat-surfing with them.

 

They Floo to The Leaky Cauldron then step out to Muggle London. They all enjoy seeing different lodgings, and weighing in their opinions about the pros and cons of renting that specific one, but in the fourth flat, Luna and Ginny disappear into one of the bedrooms to snog, and the agent seems to get more and more irritated as Hermione or Harry takes time to explain to Ron what a kettle (and a toaster, and power outlets in general) do.

 

It’s a sunny day, so after saying goodbye to the last elderly woman that lives next to a potential flat, they decide to get ice cream.

 

Harry has gone for more than five hours without thinking about Severus, but the blue ice cream reminds him of a ridiculous, half-whispered, desperate promise.

 

His breathing must have gone funny because the next thing he’s aware of is Ron’s strong hands guiding him to sit down on a bench. Hermione squats in front of him, touching his knees, seeking out his gaze.

 

“Are you all right, Harry?”

 

He nods. Of course he is. It’s a lovely day, he’s with friends, they are alive, in the near future, there will be a wedding and flat-share, normal, ordinary,  _happy_ stuff.

 

He shakes his head. No, of course he isn’t. Snape shouted at him and said he never wanted to see him again. Snape isn’t Harry’s  _anything_ , and after everything that happened, the professor still hates him. And that shouldn’t hurt, it’s not logical, but it does.

 

“Why don’t you go and talk to him?” Hermione asks softly. Ron immediately starts to argue with her, but Harry tunes out their squabble. He breathes in.

 

(The sky is blue. The birds are tweeting. He’s going to see Severus.)

 

(Everything will be fine.)


	5. part five. the quiet reality of ice cream cones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Next (and last) chapter is definitely coming sooner!

**part five. the quiet reality of ice cream cones**

 

As he steps out of the fireplace, he’s startled to find the bookshelves empty, with boxes all around the floor. Before he has any time to panic, Severus steps into the room, probably alerted to someone’s arrival by the castle’s security systems.

 

He almost seems taken aback, as he realizes it’s Harry.

 

“Oh, _you_.” He mutters, shaking his head like it’s hard to believe. Harry’s gaze shifts to a copy of the morning’s Prophet, laying on the top of the box closest to the fireplace.

 

“You came to get an apology, I’d wager?” Snape sneers, following his eyes.

 

Harry stays quiet. He knows how stupid ’no, I came to invite you to have ice cream with me’ would sound now.

Severus huffs. Harry could swear on his life he won’t apologize, but he still waits if the man wants to follow up on that. He doesn’t.

The silence quickly grows uncomfortable.

 

“Did she fire you?” The tentative question sets Snape back into movement, and he strolls over, picks up the offensive paper and steps around Harry to throw it in the flames.

They watch as the Prophet quickly turns into ashes.

 

“No, I quit on my own account,” Snape admits.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why do you care?” Severus directs it back at him. He only waits one or two seconds for his answer (which fails to manifest in Harry's head in such a short time) before continuing:

“Look, Potter… whatever ridiculous notions you have about being responsible for me, you are not, _and you never were_. So let’s just make our lives easier and finish this nonsense once and for all.”

 

Snape sighs and turns towards him, drawing out his wand. Something icy washes over Harry at the sight of it, and he struggles to get his own out before the other wizard can curse him.

 

But Severus, surprisingly only opens his hand and lets the wand lay on it as if it’s only an unthreatening piece of wood. He recites:

 

“I, Severus Tobias Snape acknowledge the Life Debt I own to Harry James Potter.”

 

Harry’s mouth drops open. Snape glares at him impatiently.

 

“What do you want?”

 

The tip of Snape’s black wand is shining in an aquamarine blue color, casting a greenish hue on the room.

It’s a very heady moment when Harry is hit with the knowledge of how much power he has now. It isn’t a very clear thing, in his mind, who owns life debts to anyone, and it’s probably a tie between him and Snape anyway. The other wizard saved his life many times, and although Harry might have done it too, it was never with the intention of asking for something in return. But… this is an opportunity unlike any other. He could ask to be able to hear Snape’s heartbeat every day. To touch his chest or wrist or the vein on his neck without having to get permission from him every time. To hold him as he sleeps.

 

It’s not the right thing to do, though. He can’t force Severus to like him, can’t force him to enjoy spending, want to spend time with him. He has to work for those things on his own, without the help of magic.

 

He considers long and hard, then says:

“I want to take you out for ice cream.”

 

*

Snape stares at him, as close to befuddled as Harry’s ever seen him. After a long minute, he pockets his wand (the magic already settled into their bones, with a small tickling-like sensation), then raises a hand and flicks Harry on the temple with his long index finger.

 

“It doesn’t _sound_ empty,” he muses, repeating the movement once more. “Do you… care to explain, or logic never visits here and I shouldn’t expect miracles?”

 

Harry growls at him.

 

“Very funny.”

 

Snape eyes him warily, before taking his finger away and announcing:

 

“No, Potter, it’s actually very concerning, if anything.”

 

“I asked you to call me Harry.”

 

Severus rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes, _Harry_ , please tell me: do you consider yourself to be bat-shit insane, or am I somehow deducing the wrong social clues from this conversation?”

 

Harry can’t help it, he chuckles. Snape’s whole facial expression twists and grows downright worried, and he raises his hand again, this time to smooth it over Harry’s temple, checking his temperature. His hand is warm, but so is Harry’s face.

 

“I just never imagined that you’d be the sort of person who says ’bat-shit crazy”,” he explains.

 

Severus’s furrowed brows don’t straighten out. He lowers his hand, looking at it as if expecting to see something on it: then his whole posture stiffens, and he swallows hard and turns away.

 

Harry hadn’t realized how close they were standing until the man moving away lets the air hit him coldly in the front.

 

“You need to go now,” Severus tells him while heading for the door.

 

“What about the ice cream?”

 

“We’ll discuss the date and time by owl. Goodbye, Mr. Potter.”

 

He’s already out the door. Harry turns to the fireplace, trying to identify the ashes that were once, not so long ago, a Wizarding newspaper. He can’t.

 

“It’s Harry.” He whispers into the empty room before leaving.

 

*

It takes a solid hour to convince Hermione and Ron not to accompany him to the meeting. When they finally agree he should go alone, Harry has a slight suspicion it’s more out of wanting him to shut up about it than real conviction.

 

*

 

Snape looks the same dressed in Muggle wear as well, excluding the robe. He looks awkward, and Harry realizes he’s never seen him both out of Hogwarts and in the sunshine at the same time. It’s becoming: his black, oily hair seems even darker in the light.

 

He halts his steps in front of Harry’s bench. Acknowledges him with a nod.

 

”Shall we get this over with?” He sounds impatient, but as they join a queue in front of an ice cream stand, his movements are slow and not twitchy at all.

 

“You can choose as many flavors as you like, my treat.” Harry offers, then asks: “How are you doing?”

 

“Fine,” Severus scoffs, like the whole concept of that single word offends him. “Have you found a mental health professional?”

 

Harry simply shrugs, but when Snape shots him an angry look, elaborates:

 

“I did. Her name is Miss Greenhalves. I’ve been to her twice now. She’s… nice.”

 

Severus seems to ponder this until it’s their turn. Then he asks for salted caramel and mint chocolate chips, while Harry gets himself black forest cake and raspberry. Harry settles on a nearby bench.

 

Snape paces a few steps before him but he also sits down begrudgingly as they both grow uncomfortable.

 

“I haven’t had ice cream since I was a teenager,” Severus murmurs. He seems unhappy with something, but whether it is his admission, the quality of the sweet, or Harry’s presence, it’s up for debate. Clever people would probably bet Harry. They would be wrong.

 

“Tell me about this professional you’re seeing to heal your head.”

 

“My head doesn’t need healing.” Harry says.

 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Snape disagrees, temple screwed together in concern. “Look, it’s coming apart.” He flicks Harry right on his lightning bolt scar. “It’s already shattered.”

 

Harry’s stuck between protesting and laughing. The latter wins, which prompts Snape to glance at him in surprise.

 

“When Voldemort was inside it, it actually felt like it was splitting apart,” he shares. Snape stares at him, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that’s not something I have to worry about anymore.” He adds quietly.

 

They are eyeing each other silently. 

Harry never thought about how highly sexual an act it is, eating ice cream. He’s never seen Snape’s tongue this much, and all the licking and sucking reminds him of the nightclub.

 

It would be good to get his mind off that track.

 

“So, what are your plans? For work, I mean? Since you’re not staying in Hogwarts?”

 

Severus purses his lips like he doesn’t want to answer out of spite, but Harry waits it out patiently. It’s one of the best tactics, he knows, with Snape. Patience and kindness. The other man holds his gaze, his face so clearly saying ’annoyed’, it must be at least partly a sham.

 

Severus sighs before giving up.

 

“I’m going to open an Apothecary in Knockturn Alley.”

 

“That’s wonderful!” Harry says excitedly. Because Neville is pondering the same thing, and because he insisted Harry has a look what he’s financing, he has some sort of idea what a private-owned shop in Knockturn Alley might entail.

 

Snape shrugs.

 

“It isn’t?” Harry reconsiders, confused. He thought it took balls to face not only the Ministry-assigned paperwork but also the public and the whimsy of marketing and customers.

 

Severus shoots him a look that says „idiot”.

 

“It’s a risk.”

 

“Are you scared?” Harry challenges. He finds that with Snape, everything is a risk, but he still can’t hold himself back. Or maybe he doesn’t want to? Perhaps that’s what he enjoys in him – the constant keeping-him-on-his-toes dynamic? (Or maybe it’s his eyes? Those dark orbs always only interested in what is underneath all of what Harry tries to show to the world?)

 

Severus looks like he’s deciding if he wants to up and leave or perhaps just snort derisively. He finally delivers a tersely muttered:

 

“Nonsense.”

 

“Good.” Harry nods, chasing a melted drop of raspberry on his cone. He catches Severus watching as his tongue slides down on the sweet, and tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. _It doesn’t mean anything._ He reminds himself as Snape turns his head away. “’Coz I figured, it takes a lot of determination to go through with a project like this…”

 

He trails off, seeing Snape’s incredulous face. He smiles. He understands that facial expression perfectly: it means „lacking determination? Me? My second name is Determination, Potter.”, and he wonders when he got so good at interpreting Severus.

 

When he started paying attention to him, probably.

 

“This is good.” Harry switches to another topic, nodding at his half-eaten ice cream cone. “Do you like it as well, or would you like to try a different parlor next time?”

 

Snape shoots him a look as if he suggested they go kill his mother. Or Harry’s, actually. Or all the mothers in the world. It’s a heated gaze.

 

“Are you…” Severus starts, with great suspicion. “Are you trying to…”

Harry waits, but he doesn’t finish his sentence, just keeps looking at him closely, imploringly.

His gaze is like a weight on Harry’s chest, the tension between them almost palpable. He wants to ask what Severus wanted to say but can’t actually move, doesn’t think he would be able to utter words.

 

It’s gone the second Snape looks away and shakes his head slightly.

 

“Right. What am I thinking.” He mutters, then turns back to Harry. His face is flushed with those unattractive red splotches on both cheeks. Harry wants to touch them to see if they are warm, or perhaps how soft his skin would be under his fingers.

 

“You just came for your fix. Have at it, then.” With that, he tosses his whole arm, hand in a fist, wrist revealed, under his nose.

 

Harry doesn’t understand what to do with it, for a second. Then he feels guilty as he remembers. But his hand still wraps gently around Severus’s wrist, thumb pressing at his pulse before he speaks.

 

“I’m interested in what is going on with you too.” He says, but the man only ignores him.

 

“I’m sorry.” Harry murmurs after a few painfully silent minutes. “I only want what’s best for you… I swear, and... if it upsets you so much to be with me, I mean, I can probably somehow deal with…”

 

Severus pulls his hand away. He looks at him, then at his hand, back to Harry. Harry doesn’t know what he sees, if he sees his panic, his fear, his hurt under his skinny, unkept outsides.

 

“You are not what I expected,” Snape admits. He angles his body slightly away from him, and Harry fears he’ll leave. “Tell me… _Harry_ , is this – he gestures around with his hand, including the street, their selves, an old couple and a few pigeons – is this only your coping mechanism, or…” He’s hesitant again. “Or is there something m--else?”

 

Harry swallows. He knows what he means. He doesn’t… completely understand what he feels. Not yet. He glances around the street; suddenly anxious someone is listening in on their conversation. He sees familiar bushy hair and someone tall enough to be Ron on a street a corner away, but it’s gone as he blinks.

 

“Yeah.” He breathes, and looks back to Severus, who is serious, glum, and frankly, borderline-ugly, as always. Harry glances at him and sees so many things, feels so many, so intense emotions. None of them have simple names. Some of them still stem from a horrible place, from a place with blood and urine and pain. Some of them swirl around him in a colourful hurdle of want, need and soft, whispering whiskey-filled silence. Touch. He wants to touch. Yeah, that’s not something he can put into words sensically yet. “But I need time.”

 

Severus nods. Something is suddenly different about him, the way he holds his shoulders, or how relaxed his mouth seems, or something.

“I imagine I need some time as well.” He allows.

 

Harry contemplates asking to hold his hand (properly, this time, not to check his pulse, even if he’d like to do that too, again, always), but the minutes pass and he doesn’t dare to make a move, or bring it up. He can’t shake the thought, however. Can’t concentrate on anything else besides taking Severus’s hand in his. Or how he shouldn’t, not after what he just said. Or perhaps...

 

Finally, Severus stands.

 

“I’m moving into the shop next Monday. I could use someone to help me unpack.”

 

“I’ll be there as long as you like.” Harry answers immediately.

 

“Good. I’ll owl you the details.” With a curt nod, Severus turns away. Even in muggle-wear, his non-existent robes seem to billow behind him.

 

“Severus?” Harry calls out quietly, and miraculously, the man hears him and turns his head back to stare at him. “Umm. I just wanted to say… thanks for coming here. And have a nice week.”

 

“Harry.”

 

He walks away, and Harry stares after him long until he’s gone.

 

*

 

 

“Are you ever going to come home?” Hermione asks as she slots next to him on the bench. Ron is a few steps behind her, berating:

“Hermione, a secret stakeout _is_ supposed to be a _secret._ That means you don’t reveal yourself _ten minutes_ after –”

“Harry’s noticed us ages ago.” Hermione brushes his complaints off. “Am I right, Harry?”

 

Harry feels annoyed and touched at the same time.

“This was a private meeting.”

Ron seems to be on his side.

“Yeah, that was what I was saying—”

“So how is this different than ’I used protection both times’, Harry?”

 

Harry twists his head to look around then, but nobody seems interested in their conversation from the people mulling around the ice cream parlour. Still, he casts a  _Muffliato_ around them just to be sure. He shrugs afterward. Hermione presses.

 

“So, am I right in assuming you’re not coming to live with us after all?”

 

“Ah, what do you mean?” “Harry tries to avoid her eyes. As always, she seems to know everything.

 

Hermione is quiet, for a while. They watch as Ron kicks a few pebbles away.

 

“Harry, what’s going on with Snape?”

 

“He’s going to open a Potions Shop.”

 

“Good for him, but I meant what’s going on with _you_ and him.”

 

Harry stares ahead, trying to find the right words for the careful dancing around they do, where Snape’s heartbeat is the music. How his constant sharp need to see Severus gentled into a low buzzing at the back of his mind, less painful, still consistent.

 

“Umm.”

 

“Listen. It’s different, with Snape. I don’t know how…”

 

Ron scratches his head, and casts a little side-look at Hermione that Harry catches.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” Hermione answers instead of his boyfriend. “How do you feel about Snape, Harry?”

 

“It’s complicated.” Harry mutters. He can’t put it into words.

 

“Try to explain it,” Hermione encourages him. “We have time.”

 

Harry casts a doubtful look at Ron. If his red-haired friend would be making a disgusted, or even slightly queasy face, he’d simply get up and leave. But Ron nods at him with a serious, prompting expression, like he’s waiting for him to talk strategy, settling back on the bench as if he’s getting comfortable. Hermione squeezes his lower thigh.

Harry thinks about Severus, and slowly his thought transform into words:

 

“He’s… I know he was a bastard, all right? But… I’m afraid for him. After we got back, it was overwhelming, but now that he’s mostly safe and healthy, it’s not too distracting. But I still think about him a lot. He… I try to think of him as before like he’s still our nasty, greasy Potions Professor, but it’s just not happening. Did you know he was friends with my mother? I told you all of it, with the prophecy and everything, right?”

 

His friends hum. Harry swallows.

 

“Now it’s different. He’s just… a person. I remember… I remember how he feels in my arms.” He feels himself blush, and resolutely stares ahead of himself to not notice if Hermione or Ron exchange a glance or frown. “He was so brave, in there, he was half-dead and still he wanted to help me escape. He saved me countless times over the years, even if our relationship was...”

 

“Shit.” Ron finishes for him. Hermione pokes him for interrupting, but Harry is glad for it. It helps him feel like they’re just talking instead of him spilling his guts.

 

“Yeah, and. It feels like it doesn’t matter anymore, do you know what I mean? Once I stopped thinking about him as an antagonistic sod who's always out to get me, he lost all that power to annoy me. He still tries to be an arsehole sometimes, but he isn’t capable of doing it alone. If I ignore it or don’t react to it, he stops behaving like that. And I can’t stop thinking about him. He is… he just, he… I can’t stop thinking about him.”

 

Hermione and Ron stay quiet, but this time, Harry isn’t bothered – he feels distant enough from his usual self to consider something that has been lingering in his mind, for a while, without ever forming into proper words.

 

”Do you think I’m in love with him?” He asks his friends quietly. Silence settles on them, uncomfortable. They’re thinking about what and how to say, very loudly. “Pomphrey and McGonagall probably did.” He adds. “They acted ever so weirdly.”

 

“What do you think?” Ron asks carefully. Hermione leans closer and lifts his chin. There is warmth in her eyes, love, and acceptance. Harry feels like crying, and simultaneously, bafflingly, as if his soul is the lightest thing in the world.

 

“I have no idea what else it could be called.” He murmurs after a while, embarrassed.

 

”Stupidity, I reckon,” Ron jokes, and gets a smack in the arm by his girlfriend.

 

”Maybe you feel grateful and indebted to him, because of how he provided you company during a very traumatic experience.” Hermione theorizes, glancing at Harry, who nods his approval.

 

“Yep, it was a right treat of him to not die.” Ron chuckles darkly, but he ignores him. “The only thing that kept me sane was to have something to do, to take care of him however limited way I could. But that seems sort of far away now, and there is something else…”

 

“Do you still feel an obligation to “take care of him”?” Hermione parrots his words back to him.

 

Harry shrugs, helplessly.

“I do, but it’s not like he needs my help! Let’s be real, he knows more Dark spells than me… and I defeated a Dark Wizard.”

 

“I’m not sure that matters when your feelings are involved. Is there something you think you, and only you can give him?... and, wait, don’t answer that just yet, is there something that you _want_ to give him?”

 

Harry swallows. The scene is clear in his mind, even if the scenery is not, is shifting around, taking shapes as a dungeon, a prison, a warm and comfortable bed, the very bench they’re sitting on.

Yes. As certainly, as anything, he knows what he wants. He just can’t say it, it would sound foolish.

 

“It’s ridiculous.”

 

Ron laughs.

“That’s right up our alley then. Need I remind you that we once rode a dragon out of the biggest wizarding bank in Great Britain?”

 

Harry half-smiles at the memory. Compared to dealing with his emotion, that whole adventure seems like good, old, easier times.

 

“No, but it’s embarrassing.” He stalls, half-determined to keep his truth to himself, half-resigned, knowing he’ll tell anyhow.

 

They sit in silence.

 

“Maybe you feel attracted to him because he’s sort of broody, and mysterious, and overall dark, but it turns out he has a surprisingly moral side.” Hermione offers in a decidedly light-hearted tone, almost sing-songing some of the words.

Ron snorts, elbows him gently, and when he looks into his eyes, he wiggles his eyebrows.

“You know, he IS the Half-Blood Prince after all.”

 

Harry hides his face in his hands. His cheeks are radiating so much heat he fears it will melt the ice creams of the strangers walking away from the parlour.

 

“Listen, you have always been obsessed with either Malfoy or Snape one way or the other.” Ron continues matter-of-factly. “Age difference aside, I think Snape’s still a greasy hairsbreadth better than ferret boy.”

 

“The question, I reckon, is whether you want him to be a sort of mentor-character to you, a father figure of sorts, or you pure want to shag him.”

 

Never mind the passersby's ice creams, Harry will ignite all the cold delicacies of the world with his face alone. He moans miserably.

 

“Unless it’s both, in which case I don’t ever, ever want to know anything about your sex-life ever again, aside from that you’re happy and okay. Safe, sane and consensual, that’s how it goes, right, Mione?” Harry doesn’t have to look up to know that his answer is most likely a soft, warm smile or half a besotted eyeroll. ”Yeah. No dirty details about Snape, ‘kay, Harry?”

 

Harry makes a movement that’s somewhere between a shrug and a shake. He still refuses to emerge from behind his hands, and if he can choose, he might choose never to speak again.

 

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time you were… drawn to Snape, right?”

 

Harry cricks his neck to look up at her, surprised enough to forget his mortal embarrassment.

 

“You… you noticed?”

 

Hermione scoffs.

 

“Please. You had a crush on him as big as a house, with the whole ’Half-Blood Prince’-thing.”

 

“No, that’s not…” Harry tries to argue automatically.

 

“You kinda did.” Ron confirms. He’s a traitor.

 

“Whatever,” Harry mutters, embarrassed, and it just tumbles out of him with the same breath. “I just want to hold him, okay? Just hug him and…” He gestures in front of him vaguely.

 

“Shag?”

 

“I’m eighteen, if he offers sex I’m up for it, obviously. But if I can just be close and touch him whenever, and maybe…” The images come to him as easily as breathing. “Yeah. Okay, whatever. I’m attracted to him.”

 

The whispered confession feels like it needs a stronger statement.

 

“I’m attracted to him.” He repeats in normal volume.

 

Hermione hums, the exact same way she used to when he answered a question right in their late night study sessions.  

 

“All I’m saying is, put that, and a deep emotional trauma that you went through together in the mix, and it’s pretty understandable that you’re hung up on him.”

 

Harry sighs, suddenly feeling tired and wrung out. He slumps back between them, back hitting the bench again, and stares at his fingers.

 

“What did you talk about?” Ron asks later, quietly.

 

Harry thinks about it.

 

“This, I think, just fewer words. He invited me to help me unpack in his new shop.” He shares and the butterflies start doing their crazy dance in his stomach.

 

“Ah, so typical, he wants you to do some of his dirty work. First its cauldrons, then its packing, then I wonder what comes next…”

 

“Another kind of dirty work, maybe?” Hermione elbows him in the ribs. They snigger with Ron, but Harry doesn’t join in. He’s too busy imagining what Snape could make him do.

 

The butterflies die in a frenzy, in a big scoop of melted ice cream.

It’s fine. They have seven lives.

 


	6. part six. of refurbished shops and hearts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry helps Snape renovate his new shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this journey with me. :) If it's not too much trouble, leave a comment how you liked it. :)

**part six. of refurbished shops and hearts.**

 

Harry, his shaking hands, and the butterflies in his stomach are all there at the place and time Severus’s set.

The man arrives with an array of cleaning materials, and he gets even more out of his pockets and resizes them once they’re inside the run-down shop. It will need a lot of work, but it looks like a warm, hopeful place in the early light. Or maybe that’s just how Harry feels.

He spent the whole week discussing Snape and his feelings with in great detail, over and over again with his friends, and if nothing else, he can finally call his emotions by their names.

After Severus’s short instructions, they both get to work. They are busy scrubbing the walls off all morning; then Severus offers to stop for a quick lunch, and he presents a basket and cold sandwiches which they eat in the middle of the floor.

It’s uncomplicated and lovely, so much that Harry feels like whistling softly for the rest of the day. 

By the time sundown starts, they cleared the place out well enough to think about the next project: painting.

“Tomorrow's work, I think.” Severus nods after he explained where he imagined the counter, the shelves, the displays.

“I’ll be here. Same time?” Harry smiles at him.

For the first time this day, Severus hesitates.

“I don’t want to presume…”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s nice. I like doing it.”

Snape blinks at him, but that’s the end of it.

He walks him out when it becomes clear that it’s all they can do in a day, and Harry aches with the thought to kiss him goodnight. Snape is tired and flushed, and there is a smear of dirt on the side of his face. He looks edible, not like a serious potions professor at all. Not like a person tortured in a chamber. He looks like a man after a day of hard physical work.

 

“Sleep well, Severus,” Harry says, instead of moving forward.

“Good night,” Severus replies.

*

The next day is harder. Like suddenly someone turned on the lamps, the spaces between them are filled with tension. Snape snaps at him, for not doing something the way he imagined, and Harry snaps back at him for his harsh tone, and it all develops into a shouting match about people’s parents, and not so nice things they’ve done. It gets vulgar pretty quickly.

Severus opens the door, in between insults, indicating he should sod off.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere!” Harry argues, just to be difficult.

Severus slams the door, and storms off to the inside of the flat, goes heavily up the stairs that will eventually lead to the small flat where he says he’ll live.

Harry pours his frustration into fixing his mistake and continuing with the renovations. He knew Snape could be difficult, and he bloody well knew he could be an arsehole.

*

Severus comes back an hour later, bringing two mugs of something delicious-smelling. One of the mugs, he sets off on a flat surface, close to where Harry works, the other he nurses in his long-fingered hands as he sits.

“Is it for me?” Harry asks, out of spite. It’s been made pretty obvious that it is. It might even be apologetic, as much as anything from Snape can be called that.

Snape nods, rolling his eyes.

“Is it poisoned?” Harry asks, not completely unsuspicious.

Severus laughs. It’s an unexpected sound, it echoes through the empty space, and Harry’s suddenly bursting heart.

“Why don’t you try and find out, oh mighty Gryffindor?” Severus challenges, smirk at the corner of his mouth. Harry huffs, puts down the hammer and picks up the mug, sampling it, stepping closer to Severus. It’s mulled wine. It tastes fantastic.

“It’s good.” Harry allows. He sits down too. “Do you think it will be all right?” He asks, looking at the wall. It’s not only the work done, what he means.

“I think,” Severus muses, “I think it might just be exactly what I need.

And that’s an exciting thought indeed.

*

The next morning Snape is already inside the shop, scrubbing the counter as Harry approaches.

“Good morning, Potter.”

“It’s Harry, Severus.” Harry corrects, and as he catches Severus’s gaze, the something sparkles in between them, higher than it ever did before. Harry intended to step to the side, to resume the work he’s done the previous day, but that something doesn’t let him move.

Severus lowers the sponge and turns to face him completely. They are dangerously close, but it’s nowhere close enough for Harry’s liking.

“What will it take you to use my given name?” He asks, not really expecting an honest answer. Snape rolls his eyes, but it’s more fond than annoyed.

“Harry,” Snape answers, a bit sarcastically, but soft, oh so softly.

So he steps closer and sees Severus’s gaze flicking down to his mouth, then to the space still in between their bodies.

 

“May I kiss you?” Harry breathes into the air, and his answer arrives gently in the form of lips pressing against his.

For long minutes, Harry cannot hear anything besides the pounding of his heart in his ears. He feels the heat pull on his groin, the same heat that bursts/pours/?s out of his heart like lava, as feels Severus’s thin lips moving on his, the arms that sneak around his back and hold him close. It doesn’t compare to how the guy in the nightclub kissed him, nor how Ginny or Cho ever did. It lights his insides on fire completely. He never wants to stop.

It turns deeper as their tongues slide into play. Shivers run up and down Harry’s spine. He puts his hands on either side of Severus' waist, holding on, while the man’s hand rank over his arms.

Eventually, Harry’s hands settle onto Severus’s chest. It’s the most glorious feeling in the world, feeling his heartbeat pick up, as Harry sucks on his lower lip, or when he’s pushing himself closer. Harry doesn’t have to wonder whether Severus has felt his erection because that wonderful, strong, singing heart tells him so.

The next time, when Severus brings his hands lower and presses them closer together, he moans out loud, and the heartbeat reacts accordingly. Harry quickly strokes one of his hands across Severus’s neck, feeling his vein beating out that addictive rhythm there. Severus, between those blinding kisses, catches on, eventually.

He groans:

“Harry, I swear to god, if you’re just doing this for that stupid…!”

Harry hugs him tightly, kissing the side of his face.

“I’m just glad you’re alive.” He shushes the sounds of doubt coming from Severus. “It’s bloody hot, I’ll have you know.”

Severus stills in his embrace, just for a second, but relaxes a second later.

“Have you thought this through?” He asks quietly. “Your friends…”

Harry steps backward, to see his furrowed brow. Severus looks into his eyes deeply, then, as if he can’t handle what he sees, away.

“They already know I’m crazy without you.”

Severus glances at him considering.

“I’m not sure my presence helps with that, actually.”

Harry smiles, even if he knows that Severus wasn’t joking, this time.

“Listen, I’m going to a psychiatrist twice a week. I’m talking about the war. I’m having healthy human relationships with people, I’m practicing my hobby, I’m going back to school and I’ll look for a job when that’s over. What else is expected of me?” Harry gets slightly worked up as he ticks the things off on his fingers. “When are you going to accept that this is not some... Nor do I think of you as a… a… bottle to calm myself with. I know, in the beginning, things weren’t so clear-cut, and I’m seventeen, most of my feelings are a mess, but I want you. That’s the bottom line.”

Snape, looking into the distance, shudders.

“You don’t know me,” He whispers.

Harry starts shaking his head, but then he really thinks about it.

“I wanted to argue that I have seen most of your worst moments, and I’m still here. But you are right, there is a lot I don’t know, of the other stuff. Will you tell me?”

Severus seems to be gasping for air. He turns around suddenly, hiding his face away from Harry, his shoulders rapidly rising and falling.

Harry puts a hand on the middle of his back and waits.

“I’m not sure I can,” The answer arrives, sounding as if Severus had to bite them out of a thick material.

“We’ll find a way,” Harry reassures him.

“Oh, you infuriating prat!” Severus mutters. His voice is more embarrassed than angry, though.

Harry smiles, rubbing his shoulder gently.

“Kiss me again?” He requests.

Severus turns around and puts his hands on Harry’s face from both sides.

“Are you sure?” He asks, even as their lips gravitate towards each others’ effortlessly.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

 

Severus does, and Harry is kissing him back. They don’t stop for a long time.

 

\- the end 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Extra thanks for commenting, bookmarking and leaving kudos. :)


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